


A Fool And His Sword (Are Easily Parted)

by FlirtyFroggy



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: 13th Century, Friends to Lovers, Historical Shenanigans, I'm going to say yes, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, POV Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Slow Burn, does it count as slow burn if the burning started long before the fic does?, historical accuracy level: A Knight's Tale, it's over a century since yusuf and Nicolò met and they still haven't got their act together, plot also borrowed loosely (VERY loosely) from A Knight's Tale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:35:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27405883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlirtyFroggy/pseuds/FlirtyFroggy
Summary: “Nicolò,” Yusuf said quietly in his ear. Nicolò turned to look at him. He was very close, which Nicolò shouldn’t have been surprised by since he was the one holding him up, but it still caused him to catch his breath. His face hadn’t changed at all since the day they met, except that it smiled at him a lot more now. Yusuf took his arm from Nicolò’s shoulder, grabbed his hand, and grinned. “Run.”In which Nicolò gets drunk for the first time in over a century, gets into an ill-advised fight with Steven Merrick's great-great-great-etc-grandfather, and sparks a chase across Europe where there are a surprising number of baths and the local inn always seems to have only one bed.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 52
Kudos: 114





	1. Thessaloniki

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't put it in the tags because what AO3 does with names in this fandom turns the tags into a kind of word soup that's impossible to parse when there's lots of characters and relationships listed (or maybe that's just me), but there are some mentions of Yusuf/OMC and Nicolò/OMC in this. 
> 
> No research has been done* in the course of writing this story. Any resemblance to actual places, living or dead, is purely coincidental. 
> 
> We begin our story in the city of Thessaloniki in the year 12mumblemumble.
> 
> *This is a lie, I ended up doing an alarming amount of research trying to make sure I was being anachronistic on purpose rather than by accident.

Yusuf had never seen Nicolò drunk. Not once in over a hundred years. Tipsy, yes, many times. Just enough that he laughed a bit more easily and talked a bit more freely and touched a bit more frequently. But their bodies processed alcohol so quickly that in order to get truly, properly drunk you had to be really dedicated to becoming so. You had to work at it. Nicolò, a man of dedication and perseverance in many things, was also a man who disliked not being in control of himself and so had never dedicated himself to this.

Nicolò was drunk now and Yusuf could not say he was currently enjoying the experience. He _had_ been enjoying himself enormously. Seeing the normally cool, calm, collected Nicolò di Genova get dragged into a furious shouting match over cheese was a sight to behold. Then he’d arm-wrestled a loud-mouthed Venetian who’d annoyed everyone in the taverna. Nicolò had won and the Venetian had tried to punch him in the face and Nicolò had knocked him out cold. Yusuf had been very proud and everyone had bought Nicolò a drink and that was when the wheels had really come off the wagon, sobriety-wise. His encore had been accidently insulting the barmaid and getting slapped for it, something Yusuf was going to tease him about for at least a couple of decades. He was currently embroiled in a good-humoured argument with some Frenchmen. This was not the source of Yusuf’s displeasure. Nicolò could argue with all the Frenchmen he liked. Yusuf’s concern was with the group of Englishmen in the corner, perhaps a dozen of them, who had been casting them looks he didn’t like for some time now. 

A loud cheer drew Yusuf’s attention back to the Frenchmen. “Never, never,” one of them was saying. “You know why? Because the Pope himself is French!”

“Well the Pope may be French but Jesus is Italian,” Nicolò said, and drained his cup. The Frenchmen booed and several others cheered and banged on the tables. The Frankish Quarter of Thessaloniki was an interesting place.

“Nicolò, I don’t think Jesus was—”

“Yusuf, please. You know what I meant,” he slurred, switching from Sabir to Ligurian. “Yusuf. Yusuf.” He tipped his head to one side and grinned. Yusuf couldn’t help grinning back. “I like your name.” His discussion with the Frenchmen appeared to be entirely forgotten.

“I like your name too, my friend.” He clapped Nicolò on the shoulder. “And I’m glad to see you enjoying yourself. But perhaps it’s time for bed.” Before Nicolò got into something more serious than arm-wrestling and ended up either killing someone or exposing their secret.

“Bed?” Nicolò said, like it was a new concept. “Bed. With you?” He frowned.

“Your bed at home, Nicolò.”

“Home,” Nicolò said slowly. “Where I live. With you.”

“Yes.”

“I like living with you.”

“I like living with you too.”

“Who was that you were talking to.”

“What?” Yusuf looked around in confusion. “You.”

“No, no, no.” Nicolò shook his head pityingly, as though Yusuf were the drunken idiot here. “No. Today. At the market.”

“I don’t know. I spoke to lots of people at the market. It’s a market,” Yusuf said, pretty sure he knew who Nicolò was talking about.

“You should take him to bed,” Nicolò declared.

“Who?”

“The handsome young man from the market who obviously wanted you to take him to bed,” Nicolò said with the infinite patience of the very, very inebriated.

“No.”

“Why not?” Nicolò cocked his head again like a drunk bird. “Don’t you want to?”

Yusuf _had_ wanted to, very much. It had been a while. He also very much did not want to have this conversation with Nicolò right now. “He’s not my type." 

“Oh,” was all Nicolò said. Yusuf thought he might get away with no follow-up questions. But then: “What is your type?”

Yusuf looked at him, and all he could think about was how unfair it was that his eyes were still so pretty when they were so disgustingly bloodshot. “Um.”

“Because I don’t know, you see. We’ve been friends for such a long time, Yusuf. Such a long time. I know your taste in food and drink and clothing and weapons and music and poetry. If I see something at the market that I think you will like, I think ‘Yusuf would like that’. And I can get it for you. But I do not know your taste in men and so I cannot get them for you.”

“Um,” Yusuf said again. “You want to— you want to procure men for me?”

“No, not at all,” Nicolò said with a frown. “But you are my friend, and I will help you wherever I can.”

“Thank you, Nicolò,” Yusuf said feeling, absurdly, a small but very definite lump in his throat. Because Nicolò meant it. Drunk he may be, but his declaration was absolutely sincere and true. He would help Yusuf wherever he could. “But I do not require your help in this area.”

Nicolò patted his knee and grinned lopsidedly. “Well, you let me know if you do.”

“Nicolò di Genova,” a new voice said, much to Yusuf’s relief. Then he turned and saw who had spoken and his relief evaporated. Several of the Englishmen he had noticed earlier were gathered round them. The speaker was the most obnoxious-looking one. “It is Nicolò di Genova, yes?”

“Yes,” Nicolò said incautiously. “And you are?”

The Englishman stiffened, as though insulted. Presumably, they were supposed to already know who he was. “Stephen, Duke of Merrick.” There was a pause, like he expected them to stand or bow or something. Nicolò and Yusuf did neither. “Right. I couldn’t help but overhear your bragging earlier.” Nicolò and Yusuf both frowned in confusion. “About being the greatest swordsman ever to walk the earth,” Merrick clarified. Nicolò looked blank, apparently not remembering this at all. Yusuf did remember it, except Merrick must have misheard or misunderstood because Nicolò had been bragging about _Yusuf_ being the greatest swordsman ever to walk the earth, which had been very nice at first and then had made Yusuf want to hide under a table after it had gone on for a while. “I’m reckoned quite the swordsman myself, you know.”

That’s what this was about? Merrick wanted to challenge Nicolò? Yusuf glanced at the men arrayed behind Merrick. This could go very, very badly. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Nicolò said. 

“Are you afraid?” Merrick sneered.

“No,” Nicolò said, in his straightforward way that left you in no doubt it was the truth. “But I don’t want to hurt you.”

Merrick laughed. It wasn’t a nice sound. “You’re a cocky bastard, aren’t you?”

Nicolò frowned. “No. I just know I’m very good with a sword. You needn’t feel threatened,” he added, with all the thoughtfulness of Nicolò di Genova and all the stupidity of someone who had drunk several cups of wine and even more of whatever the hell Andreas distilled in the back room. “We have an unfair advantage over you. If you had as long as we have had to practice, you might be just as good as we are.” 

Yusuf groaned. This was exactly what he had been worried about. Merrick glanced at him then turned his attention back to Nicolò. “We? It is you I wish to cross swords with, Genova.”

“But why?” Nicolò said, confused. Then his face cleared. “Is it because you’re afraid of Yusuf? That’s wise of you.” Merrick glared. Yusuf managed, with a great deal of effort, not to put his head in his hands.

“I will not be insulted,” Merrick said in a quiet voice that was much more dangerous than his bluster had been. His hand rested on his sword. “Not by you, and not by this coward who sits here silently smirking at me.”

Yusuf, who had not been aware of doing any such thing, was too taken aback to even be offended by this. Nicolò, on the other hand, got to his feet.

“Outside,” Andreas called from behind the bar. “Fists only, no blades in here. Take it outside.”

“Outside then,” Nicolò said, picking up his sword from where it was propped against the bench and striding past Merrick and his men. It took Yusuf a second to gather his wits before following him out. 

“Nicolò. Nicolò. This is not a good idea,” Yusuf said, watching Nicolò attach his scabbard to his belt. He pulled his cloak around himself. Winter was not over yet, and the night air held a chill.

“He cannot hurt me, Yusuf. Not permanently. You know this.”

“But you can permanently hurt him. And his men. He’s a duke. There are repercussions to killing dukes. Also, Andreas will be furious if you get blood all over his yard.”

“He’s a duke in England,” Nicolò said dismissively. “Here he’s just an idiot.”

“You are drunk,” Yusuf said softly, laying a hand on his arm. Nicolò stared at it. “If he gets the better of you, or his men decide to join in, you’re going to get hurt. They’re going to see.” 

Nicolò nodded slowly and pulled his arm away. “You are right.” Yusuf heaved a sigh of relief. “You are right, of course. We shall go home.”

“Running away are we?” Merrick said, emerging from the taverna.

“Just choosing to take the high road,” Yusuf said, backing away. He half-turned at a noise from behind him and saw that Merrick’s men had already cut off their escape. Yusuf sighed and gave up. If Merrick wanted to die on Nicolò’s blade that badly he was welcome to. “Fine. Whatever.” Nicolò shot him a questionning look. “He’s all yours.”

Nicolò drew his sword, as did Merrick. It did not escape Yusuf’s notice that several of Merrick’s men were either holding weapons or looked ready to do so. Yusuf rested his hand on the dagger at his hip.

Nicolò and Merrick circled each other, wary. Nicolò stumbled slightly and Merrick’s men laughed, because they were fools and were watching Nicolò’s feet and paying no attention to his face. Either his body was doing its work clearing his system or his instinct for danger was cutting through the alcohol; his eyes were a lot sharper than they had been only a few minutes ago. The stumble had been a feint, and it almost ended the fight before it had begun. Nicolò’s sword flashed out and only quick reflexes saved Merrick from losing an arm. The edges of a rip in his sleeve slowly darkened with blood and he glowered at Nicolò.

Merrick was good. His arrogance hadn’t been misplaced. Of course, Nicolò was better. But he was hampered by the fact that he was still drunk, albeit sobering by the minute, and by the fact that he was trying not to kill Merrick or hurt him too badly. Merrick did not seem to have any such qualms and Yusuf had to force down the urge to rush in and help. Nicolò could take care of himself, and giving Merrick’s men the excuse they wanted to rush to their lord’s aid would not in fact help Nicolò at all. 

Nicolò stumbled, for real this time, and fell, landing on his backside on the stone floor. He lost his hold on his sword and Merrick picked it up as the sound of his men’s laughter filled the street. Yusuf’s grip on his dagger tightened and he wondered if drawing his scimitar would escalate things. It probably would. Merrick weighed the sword in his hands. Nicolò’s lip curled. “This is a nice sword,” Merrick said. “I think I’ll keep it.” Nicolò’s face went very, very still. Merrick looked at Nicolò down the length of the blade and Yusuf shifted his weight forward. If Merrick even attempted to hurt Nicolò while he was down he would regret it. Mostly due to the knife Nicolò would likely plunge into his ribs but Yusuf would certainly help, consequences be damned. He almost wished Merrick would try something, but there were too many people watching from the taverna and even more in the street and they couldn’t take on all these men without getting injured at least a little. And he _liked_ living here, dammit, he didn’t want to have to run again. Not yet.

Merrick laughed and turned his back on Nicolò. He walked away into the night with his men and Nicolò’s sword while Yusuf and Nicolò watched in impotent fury. Yusuf helped Nicolò up off the ground as the crowd dispersed, and a quick check of his clothes confirmed what Yusuf suspected: despite Merrick’s skill and Nicolò’s inebriation, Merrick hadn’t got a single touch on him. “Come. Let’s go home.” 

“As we should have done when you first suggested it,” Nicolò said. “I am sorry, Yusuf.”

“No need to appologise to me,” Yusuf said in an attempt at levity. “ _I_ still have my sword.” Nicolò’s mouth twisted. “Too soon?”

Nicolò huffed a laugh. “Yes. But I will forgive you.” He rubbed his forehead. “I think the hangover might be starting.”

“I’m sure it will be brief. Come. In the morning I will buy you a new sword.”

“I want _my_ sword,” Nicolò muttered, and for a moment Yusuf thought he was going to suggest going after Merrick. But he slung an arm around Yusuf and turned his feet for home.

~~

“You stink,” Yusuf said in Greek as Nicolò shuffled out of the bedroom, blinking at the sunlight. His hangover had cleared up before they even got home but he still felt… off.

“You need to stop showering me with these compliments, Yusuf,” Nicolò said around a yawn. He sagged onto the cushion beside Yusuf. “You’re going to make me blush.”

“How are you feeling?” Yusuf asked.

Humiliated. That’s what he was feeling. That was why he had wanted to remain curled up in his bed, why he’d awoken feeling nauseous. “I want my sword.”

Yusuf laughed, then stopped when he saw his face. “Nicolò.” He took his hand where it rested between them, squeezed once. Waited.

“Ignore me. He made a fool of me and so I am feeling foolish." He squeezed Yusuf’s hand in return then pulled away. There was only so much hand-holding he could cope with, especially before breakfast.

“I don’t think you’re a fool,” Yusuf said, slipping into Ligurian as he still did, even now, when he wanted to be absolutely sure Nicolò understood him. Nicolò felt some of the nausea recede. “But I do think you need a bath.”

Nicolò laughed. “Can I eat first?”

“I will allow it,” Yusuf said magnanimously.

The nearest baths were just around the corner so it wasn’t long after breakfast that Nicolò found himself mostly naked in a hot room beside an equally mostly naked Yusuf. He tipped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. “Remind me never to get drunk again.”

“Will you need reminding?”

“Who knows? Perhaps in another hundred years I will have forgotten this and you will need to say to me, ‘remember that time in Thessaloniki?’ the next time I feel an urge to, you know.” He waved a hand around, unsure of what exactly he had felt the urge for. His memories of the night before prior to his introduction to the Duke of Merrick were fuzzy.

“When I remind you, should I bring up the fact you called me the greatest swordsman in the world or not?”

Nicolò cracked an eye open so he could gauge the veracity of this claim. Yusuf was smiling, head tipped back like Nicolò, eyes closed. A bead of sweat trickled from his hair, over the strip of skin between his beard and his ear, and down his neck before settling on his collarbone. Nicolò closed his eyes again. “Is that what I said?”

“Hmm. Actually, it was ‘the greatest swordsman ever to walk the earth’ if I’m not mistaken.”

“I’m an honest drunk.”

Yusuf laughed. “And a troublesome one.”

“And a troublesome one,” Nicolò agreed. He stretched his arms up over his head, as though working out kinks in his shoulders that couldn’t exist. The stretch felt good anyway. He dropped his arms with a sigh. “I want my sword.”

“So why don’t we go and get it?” Yusuf said. Nicolò opened his eyes to find Yusuf already looking at him.

“Really?”

“Why not?”

“You want to break into the Duke of Merrick’s residence, get past all his men, find my sword, steal my sword, and then get out again, all without getting caught, getting killed or having to kill anyone else.”

“It might be a little trickier than I supposed,” Yusuf conceded.

“Is all this because you’re too cheap to buy me a new sword like you promised?”

“Let’s say yes.”

~~

From his vantage point across the street, Yusuf had seen enough to ascertain that this was indeed where the Duke of Merrick was staying. Finding the house had been a simple matter of asking around for the most insufferable man in Thessaloniki, and while there were many contenders for that title, most fingers had pointed at the building Yusuf had now spent an hour watching. Getting into the house was going to be more complicated. Merrick seemed to have a small army accompanying him on his visit.

This was not a sensible course of action, Yusuf was aware of that. There were plenty of places in the city where they could obtain a new sword that would meet Nicolò’s exacting standards. There was no good reason to break into Merrick’s house. He was under no illusions that Nicolò’s regret, embarassment or possessive desire for that sword in particular were good reasons.

“Here you are,” Nicolò’s voice said from behind him. “Any luck?”

“It wasn’t luck, it was my excellent detective skills,” Yusuf said, turning. Nicolò was, for some reason, licking his fingers. For a moment Yusuf forgot what he was going to say. He gestured across the street. “He’s in there.”

“Is my sword in there?” He moved next to Yusuf and held something out to him. A nectarine. Yusuf took it with a smile. That explained the finger-licking. He bit into the fruit, his stomach rumbling impatiently as the juice filled his mouth.

“It’s right there on display in the window, can’t you see it?” 

“Very funny.” Nicolò bit into another nectarine. It left a sheen on his lips.

“I have no idea where it is. I assume it’s in there somewhere. Unless he’s sold it.” Nicolò looked horrified at this suggestion. “Probably not. He’s very rich. Why would he need to sell it?”

“Do you have a plan yet?”

“Why do I have to come up with all the plans?”

“You’ve been standing here for half the morning. I’ve just arrived.”

Yusuf finished his nectarine. With nothing to clean himself with, he resorted to licking his fingers as Nicolò had done. Nicolò watched him with blank patience. “Wait until nightfall, sneak into the garden, then do some eavesdropping and peering in at windows.”

“I’m not sure I’d call that a plan. It’s more an idea.”

“Do you have a better one?”

“Not really, no.”

“Then stop complaining and give me another nectarine.”

~~

Nicolò remained unconvinced that splitting up had been the best idea. Yes, they could cover more ground this way, and yes one person sneaking around was less noticable than two. But Nicolò didn’t like the idea of not being there to help Yusuf if Merrick’s men caught him. Yusuf was more than capable of taking care of himself, but he shouldn’t have to. He was only doing this for Nicolò. Besides Merrick was ruthless and a bully and the further away he was from both of them the happier Nicolò would be.

He skirted round the corner of the building and received immediate confirmation that splitting up had been a bad idea, as well as a strong argument against his supposition that Yusuf could take care of himself. He tried very hard not to laugh.

“What are you doing?” he hissed in Arabic.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Yusuf hissed back.

“It looks like you’re hanging upside down from a fig tree in the Duke of Merrick’s garden.”

“Well, there you are then.”

“Yusuf—”

“The upside down part was not in the original plan, okay?” Yusuf said in a furious whisper Nicolò had become very familiar with over the last century or so. “I saw an opportunity to get information.”

“From a tree?”

“From there,” Yusuf said, jabbing a vicious finger at the open window that had presumably been his target before he lost his balance and ended up in his current position. The movement set him swinging like a pendulum. “I feel dizzy,” he said. “And a bit sick.”

“You’ve been upside down for quite a while,” Nicolò observed.

“Help me, then,” Yusuf said with a glare that was completely spoiled by the smile pulling at his lips.

Nicolò stepped forward. As though the tree had been waiting for it, the branch Yusuf had been hanging from snapped without warning, sending Yusuf plummeting to the ground where he landed with a crunch at Nicolò’s feet. Nicolò jumped backwards and swore in Ligurian, not quietly. Yusuf clutched his leg and swore in Arabic, even less quietly. Behind the window where Yusuf had been trying to eavesdrop the murmur of voices stopped and then started again much more loudly, accompanied by the scraping of chairs. Nicolò hauled Yusuf to his feet. “Are you alright?” he asked. Yusuf, his teeth gritted, gestured emphatically at his leg, which was slowly straightening itself from a very, very unnatural angle. Nicolò swore again and got his shoulder under Yusuf’s arm to support him. “Tell me when you can run,” he said, as they limped gingerly towards the street. Behind them, Merrick’s men were shouting about intruders but seemed to still be in the house. He tightened his grip on Yusuf’s waist.

“Nicolò,” Yusuf said quietly in his ear. Nicolò turned to look at him. He was very close, which Nicolò shouldn’t have been surprised by since he was the one holding him up, but it still caused him to catch his breath. His face hadn’t changed at all since the day they met, except that it smiled at him a lot more now. Yusuf took his arm from Nicolò’s shoulder, grabbed his hand, and grinned. “Run.”

Thessaloniki’s narrow streets weren’t the ideal place to run through while holding someone’s hand, even on a quiet winter night when most people were at home, but they held on all the same as shouts and the sound of running footsteps followed them down the street. It was only when they ducked into a narrow alleyway that Yusuf’s hand slipped from Nicolò’s grasp. The sound of Merrick’s men quickly faded but still they ran, gasping and laughing, until they reached their own neighbourhood and stopped to catch their breath.

“We are too old to be chasing through the streets like errant children,” Yusuf said, laughing.

“Speak for yourself, old man.” Nicolò straightened up and slung an arm around Yusuf’s shoulder. “Come. Let’s go home before you get us into any more trouble.”

“Me? Whose drunken fight was it that caused all this in the first place?” There was no response Nicolò could give to that. He really didn’t have a leg to stand on. His silence got him a gentle elbow in the ribs. “Nothing to say to that, hmm?”

“If you have nothing nice to say, say nothing at all.”

“ _You_ are trouble, Nicolò di Genova,” Yusuf said. “You always have been.”

“Perhaps that is why we are such good friends.”

~~

Yusuf had gone back to the market after all but had been unable to find Ioannes, the young man he had met the other day. So much for taking him to bed. He bought some figs and a loaf of bread instead, which was definitely just as good as having a handsome young man in your bed. He was heading home when he realised he wasn’t far from the Duke of Merrick’s house so he took a detour with the vague idea that he might spot something in passing that might help in retrieving Nicolò’s sword. The previous night had not been his finest hour.

He rounded the corner onto Merrick’s street and came to a halt. Servants were to-ing and fro-ing between the house and several carts outside, carrying boxes and trunks. Yusuf swore, checked for any sign of armed men who might recognise him from the fight, and hurried across the street.

“Is his Lordship leaving so soon?” he said as casually as he could to a servant who had just deposited a heavy-looking chest in one of the wagons and had stopped to catch his breath. Yusuf leaned against the wall beside him and flashed one of his most charming smiles.

“We sail for Venice tomorrow morning, as planned,” the man said, his Sabir accented and rough but not unpleasant. “Why, you got business with him?” He had nice eyes, warm and inquisitive, a soft hazel. Yusuf dialed the smile up a notch.

“Well, I was hoping to. But if he’s leaving tomorrow I suppose I won’t. No matter. I have other people interested.”

“I’m sure you do,” the man said, the flicker of his eyes down Yusuf’s body subtle but unmistakable. Several ideas formed simultaneously in Yusuf’s mind. He leaned in a little closer.

“Listen, I may be too late for his Lordship,” he said, dropping his voice. “But maybe I’m right on time for… someone else. Perhaps if I came back tonight?”

“I won’t be here tonight, I have to take all this down to the ship,” the man said cheerily.

“Oh. Well. Nevermind then.” Today really was not his day.

“But I have some time now.”

His name was Thomas and he could do some very surprising things with his tongue, and although the only languages he spoke fluently were English and Sabir, he could say ‘please’ in at least four others. It was a very satisfactory afternoon.

The sky was just starting to pink by the time Yusuf got home. The ingredients for supper were on the table, chopped and prepared but not yet cooked and with no-one there to cook them. His mind on the afternoon’s events, he breezed through the main room and into the bedroom without a second thought. Then he froze on the threshold for a second before going back out again and shutting the door. 

“Sorry,” he called.

Nicolò’s snort of laughter filtered through the door, followed by an unfamiliar voice speaking too low for Yusuf to make out the words. He lit the lamps, then took a book of poetry from the shelf by the fireplace and went to sit in his favourite spot by the window. He would have liked to attempt, yet again, to capture the way the early evening light hit the northern hills but his sketchbook was trapped in the bedroom. He hummed to himself as he read, though the noise from the other room was surprisingly low. He wondered if Nicolò was always this quiet or if it was just because he knew Yusuf was there. Then he shut down that train of thought and concentrated on his book.

Five poems later the bedroom door opened and a mass of curly golden hair with legs emerged. Presumably there was a face and a body in there too, but those were the primary features. The hair scuttled across the room, and Yusuf got the impression of bright eyes and a shy smile before it disappeared through the door and out into the street. Nicolò appeared a moment later, at a more leisurely pace.

“He seemed nice,” Yusuf said, not looking up from his book.

“He was,” Nicolò agreed. “No, no don’t get up,” he added, making a ‘stop’ gesture at Yusuf, who hadn’t moved. “I’ll make supper. You just sit there.”

“Thank you,” Yusuf said, looking up to beam at Nicolò, who rolled his eyes and set to work on supper. His cheeks were flushed, his shoulders loose, and he generally looked a lot more relaxed than he had that morning.

“Find anything interesting at the market?” Nicolò asked.

“Hmm. figs and bread.” Nicolò’s eyes flicked round the room at this. “I ate them. Sorry.”

“It took you six hours to eat some bread and figs?” That smile was twitching at one corner of his mouth. The one that meant he thought he was being funny.

“I ate them with a very nice young man called Thomas.”

“The one from the market the other day?”

“No, a different one.”

Nicolò laughed and shook his head. “Yusuf, Yusuf, Yusuf.”

“Don’t ‘Yusuf’ me when you just had fucking Ganymede running out of here. Where did you find him anyway?”

“He works at the draper’s. I ordered some cloth last month and he offered to drop it off when it came in.”

“I bet he did.” 

“Where did you find Thomas then?”

“He’s a servant in the Duke of Merrick’s household.”

Nicolò stopped what he was doing and gave Yusuf a sharp look. “And you just happened to bump into him at the market?”

“No. I approached him outside Merrick’s house.”

Nicolò pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yusuf. I appreciate everything you do for me, don’t think that I don’t. But please tell me you didn’t bed this man in an attempt to retrieve my sword.”

“Of course not,” Yusuf scoffed. “What do you take me for? I bedded him because I wanted to. Information was just a bonus.”

“Okay, then what— please explain.”

“I was passing Merrick’s and he was loading up a cart outside. I went to ask if Merrick was leaving and we talked and he invited me in. We had a very nice time. There was no sign of your sword, but I only saw the servants’ quarters. I did get Merrick’s entire intinerary though. Thomas is a talkative one. Probably going to get into trouble one day.”

“Merrick’s leaving?”

Yusuf nodded. “Sailing for Venice tomorrow morning. He’s making his leisurely way back from pilgrimage in the Holy Land. Spent the winter here because, you know. Winter.”

“Well. That’s that then.”

“I’m sorry,” Yusuf said. 

Nicolò shrugged and resumed chopping walnuts. “No matter. Nothing to be done about it now. I’ll just buy another sword.” He smiled. “Well, you’ll buy me another sword.”

“All the things you’ve forgotten from that night and this is what you remember.”

“I never forget a debt,” Nicolò said.

The stew was bubbling in its pot before Nicolò spoke again. “I was wrong before. There is something I can do about it.”

Yusuf had been waiting for this. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. We can’t make a move on Merrick’s house tonight. We know no more about where he might be keeping your sword than before. There just isn’t time to get the information we need, let alone actually retrieve your sword. I’m sorry.”

“No, I know that.”

“Then what?”

Nicolò took a deep breath and glanced up at him before looking away. “I’m going to Venice.”

Yusuf blinked. This was unexpected. Sure, Nicolò’s anger, once roused, could be implaccable, but in a ‘If they crossed paths again in thirty years time Nicolò would still have a few things to say’ kind of way. Not a ‘chase him across the sea’ kind of way. “You’re doing what?”

“I’m going to Venice.” Nicolò stirred the stew. “You don’t have to come with me.”

“Of course I do, don’t be stupid.”

“Yusuf—”

“It must be serious, if you’re going to Venice voluntarily.” Nicolò huffed a laugh at that. “Of course I’ll come with you. I will always come with you.” No matter how mad it is.

Nicolò bit his lip. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, how long until I get fed? Supper should be on the table by now, but you had to take a break to seduce the delivery boy, didn’t you?”

“Excuse you, but he did all the seducing. I was just trying to purchase some cloth.”

“Mhmm,” Yusuf said in the most sceptical voice he could muster and got a towel to the face and a bark of laughter in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Because the pope himself is French/ The pope may be French but Jesus is ~~English~~ Italian" is from A Knight's Tale. Also, Italy didn't exist at this point.
> 
> I feel like I've stolen "He made a fool of me and so I am feeling foolish" from something, but I have no idea what. Google gave me nothing.
> 
> The south-west area of Thessaloniki was home to settlers from western Europe for centuries, though it wasn't known as the Frankish Quarter until later.
> 
> I had other ahistorical notes but my brain is fried and I've forgotten them, I'm sorry.
> 
> I wasn't going to post this until it was finished but I now have The Plague (I'm ok) and need cheering up, so I'm posting now. The next couple of chapters are done and I'm planning on updating once a week. Hopefully I can keep to the schedule but we'll see.


	2. Venezia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“So, what’s the plan?”_
> 
> _“Again expecting me to come up with all the plans,” Yusuf said._
> 
> _“You’re right. Your last plan ended with us fleeing from Merrick’s men after you fell out of a tree. I should be in charge of plans from now on.”_
> 
> _“I can’t wait for this.”_
> 
> _“I’ll try to come up with something that doesn’t involve anybody’s bones sticking out through their skin, shall I?”_
> 
> _Yusuf shrugged. “Sure, if you want to be a coward about it.”_
> 
> Yusuf and Nicolò arrive in Venice and they definitely know what they're doing. Definitely.

“Look at this,” Nicolò said with a disgusted wave of his hand. “It’s all just so…”

“So..?”

“Ostentatious.”

“Right. Unlike Genoa, obviously. So restrained.”

Nicolò shot him a glare that had neither heat nor ice in it, and so Yusuf ignored it. “So, what’s the plan?”

“Again expecting me to come up with all the plans,” Yusuf said.

“You’re right. Your last plan ended with us fleeing from Merrick’s men after you fell out of a tree. I should be in charge of plans from now on.”

“I can’t wait for this.”

“I’ll try to come up with something that doesn’t involve anybody’s bones sticking out through their skin, shall I?”

Yusuf shrugged. “Sure, if you want to be a coward about it,” he said, as though thinking about it didn’t still make him feel slightly sick. He prompted a laugh out of Nicolò though.

“I don’t suppose your talkative friend mentioned where they would be staying?”

“No. But Merrick’s rich and likes to show off and is full of his own importance so I imagine he’d be as close to the Palace as he can get.” Yusuf looked round the Piazzetta, but the Duke of Merrick did not magically appear in front of them.

“Well, I need to get clean and get some proper food. So I suggest we find an inn and then we can begin our search for Merrick with full stomachs.”

“Good plan. You’re getting the hang of this.”

Nicolò said nothing, but his expression spoke volumes.

~~

Finding an inn was easier said than done. Or rather, finding an inn that wasn’t stuffed to the gills with pilgrims on their way to the Holy Land was easier said than done. Eventually, after traipsing for what felt like miles through the maze of streets, they found one that had a room left, which they took without even quibbling the fact that the cost had obviously gone up the moment the proprietor clocked the quality of their clothing and Yusuf’s scimitar. Fortunately, between Nicolò and Yusuf’s rusty Venetian and the proprietor’s inconsistent grasp of Sabir they were at least able to communicate properly. Nicolò suspected that if they’d had to resort to mime like some of the visitors they had seen, the cost would have been even higher. 

“New plan,” Nicolò said in Greek as they made their way upstairs. “We eat, we go to bed, we start looking for Merrick in the morning.”

“Good plan,” Yusuf groaned. “I think city living has made us soft.”

He wasn’t wrong. Their years as itinerant mercenaries were a decade behind them, and though they had taken many a job in Thessaloniki that required their blades, they had lived comfortably. Softly. Good food on the table and a comfortable bed each and a bath whenever they wanted it. Life aboard the ship from Thessaloniki had been something of a shock to the system. Nicolò unlocked their room and swung the door open. Yusuf groaned again.

“You definitely got ripped off,” he said.

“We. We got ripped off.”

“Please tell me you at least got them to bring some food up for us.” Yusuf sat down on the single rickety chair and began untying his boots.

“No, I thought it would be fun if we walked up the stairs for no reason, then went back down again to eat.” Yusuf glared at him. “Yes, they’re bringing us food.”

“You pay extra for that?”

“If you wanted to haggle you were free to do so.”

“At least it’s clean,” Yusuf said looking around the room. What there was of it. He stretched and arched his back, his shirt pulling across his chest. Nicolò kicked their belongings into the corner and sat down on the bed to remove his own boots.

“We’ve definitely slept in worse places.”

“That’s hardly a ringing recommendation,” Yusuf said.

“You want to go back out into Venice and find somewhere else?” Nicolò swore under his breath as the knot in the lacing round his boot pulled tighter instead of coming free.

“You’re really grumpy when you’re hungry, do you know that?”

“Me?” Nicolò said, incredulous, tugging at the leather cord. "Unbelievable."

“Honestly,” Yusuf said, standing up and crossing to Nicolò. “I’ve known children better at dressing themselves than you.” Nicolò glared but Yusuf was, as ever, unmoved. He knelt down in front of Nicolò and pulled his foot into his lap so he could see the knot. “This isn’t even that bad.”

“I can’t get it to budge.”

“You need more patience.”

“I need better boots,” Nicolò grumbled.

“And more patience.”

“I can’t believe I’m being lectured on patience by you, of all people.”

“I don’t know what you mean by that.”

“I could recount a list of examples if you like.”

“How about you don’t and let me concentrate on this.”

“I thought you said it wasn’t that bad,” Nicolò said, leaning back on his hands.

“It wasn’t, but you keep squirming.” Nicolò thought about arguing that, but decided to just watch Yusuf work at the knot instead. “Done,” Yusuf said at last. He pulled the knot loose with dextrous fingers then eased the boot off Nicolò’s foot and placed it with the other. He moved to get up, then apparently changed his mind and twisted round so he was sitting on the floor with his back against the bed. His shoulder brushed against Nicolò’s knee. He rested his head against the mattress and closed his eyes.

“You’re not falling asleep down there are you?” Nicolò said, tapping his finger against Yusuf’s temple.

“Nope. Food first.”

The food Nicolò had requested was ‘whatever you’ve got’, which Nicolò was now starting to have second thoughts about. However, when it arrived ‘whatever you’ve got’ turned out to be a spiced fish soup that Nicolò had to admit was delicious, and not just because he was famished.

“This place does have its compensations,” Yusuf said, mopping up the last bits of soup with some bread. “We picked well.”

“We didn’t pick it, it was just here,” Nicolò objected.

“Hush, Mr Negativity.” 

They left the tray outside the door, then approached the bed. It was not a large bed.

“Will we both even fit?” Nicolò said, tilting his head and trying to visualise them both lying side by side.

“Sure we will,” Yusuf said, nudging him. “It’ll be cozy.” To demonstrate, he lay down on his side with his back against the wall and swept his hand across the space beside him. “See. Lots of room.” Then he started laughing, but at what Nicolò couldn’t tell.

“Have you lost your mind? Has Venice finally pushed you over the edge?”

“No. I just remembered the last time we shared a bed.”

“Ah. You mean when you accidently kneed me in the dick when you got up to pray? Funnily enough, I also remember that,” Nicolò said.

“It was dark, I’m sorry.”

“Regardless of the light level, your knee shouldn’t be anywhere near my dick.” 

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Yusuf said, his eyes sparkling. “Now close the shutters and come to bed. You look like you’re about to fall asleep on your feet.”

Nicolò closed the shutters and turned back to the bed, where Yusuf was wriggling out of his tunic. Then he realised they hadn’t locked the door, and had left his dagger and Yusuf’s sword with their bags. Their habits had become complacent. He locked the door and jammed the chair under the handle for good measure. He doubted it would do much good, but it made him feel better anyway. He placed the dagger under his pillow and the sword just under the bed, beside the pile of clothing Yusuf had left on the floor. Yusuf watched him from under the blanket with an amused smile.

“Are you sure you don’t want to barricade the window as well? We’re only three stories up.”

“If I left it up to you,” Nicolò said as he stripped down to his shirt. “We’d be killed in our sleep.”

“Well, what harm would it do?”

Nicolò wasn’t going to dignify that with a response. He folded his tunic and hose neatly, but with the chair being otherwise engaged the only place to put them was the floor. He placed them next to Yusuf’s and slid into bed. Nicolò was reasonably confident he was going to end up on the floor at some point. It had been a long time since they had shared a bed and Nicolò didn’t remember any of them being quite _this_ small. They were close enough that he could feel the heat of Yusuf all along his back through both their shirts and something, presumably Yusuf’s chest, was brushing against his shoulder blades.

“See,” Yusuf said through a yawn. “Cozy.”

“That’s one word for it.” 

“Goodnight Nicolò,” Yusuf said, a smile in his voice.

“Goodnight Yusuf.”

~~

They were not killed in their sleep. Yusuf managed to get out of bed for fajr without kneeing Nicolò anywhere at all. He considered it a successful night and hoped they would have a successful morning. They headed to the hostelries in the vicinity of San Marco to ask after any newly arrived English lords with too much luggage and too few manners.

“What if he’s not staying at an inn or a hostel,” Nicolò said after their fifth failure. “What if he’s taken a house like he did in Thessaloniki?”

“He stayed in Thessaloniki for months. He’s only supposed to be here for a few days before he moves on to Verona.”

“He might be staying with friends.”

“I doubt he has friends,” Yusuf said. Who would want to be friends with him?

“Acquaintances then. Business partners. People who want to curry favour with a rich man. Must you be so pedantic?”

“Only when it annoys you.”

“At some point he’s going to see the Doge, right?” Nicolò said with a frown. “Or try to. I don’t know how important he actually is or whether he’ll get an audience. Even if he doesn’t get an audience, he’ll be hanging around the Palace. Why don’t we just hang around the palace?”

“It probably beats fruitlessly trailing from inn to inn. What will you do if you see him? Challenge him to a duel in the Piazzetta? You can’t fight a duel without a sword. But you need to fight the duel to get the sword. Quite the catch-22 situation.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of discretely following him until we have a better idea what we’re dealing with.”

“That could work too,” Yusuf admitted.

They decided the best way to watch the palace was to lurk under the arches of the shops opposite. They stayed there all morning, watching the rich and powerful flit in and out of the building, their view occassionally blocked by herds of pilgrims heading to and from the quay. Yusuf was beginning to wonder if there was anyone here who wasn’t a pilgrim. “Was it this bad the last time we were here?” Nicolò asked. “I swear it wasn’t this bad the last time we were here.”

“That was several decades ago,” Yusuf reminded him.

“Was it?” Nicolò scrunched up his face, trying to remember. “How many?”

“Several.”

“Thanks for narrowing that down for me.”

They got lunch and resumed their stakeout of the palace, to absolutely no avail. There was no sign of Merrick.

The next day progressed in exactly the same way, except this time Yusuf brought his sketchbook so they at least got some nice pictures.

“Maybe tomorrow we should split up,” Yusuf said as they sat on the bed that evening. He was darning a hole in his shirt. Beside him, Nicolò was putting the finishing touches to the cloak he was making. He had started it on the journey from Thessaloniki, but hadn’t quite had time to finish it. “One of us should watch the palace and one of us should ask at the inns.”

“Do I need to remind you what happened last time we split up?”

“Yes, yes, I got stuck in a tree and then fell out of it. I don’t think that’s going to happen this time.”

“No trees.”

Yusuf glared at him. “That’s not the reason.” 

Nicolò put his needle back in its case and shook out the cloak. “Stand up,” he said, getting up himself.

“Why?”

“I want to see if this fits.”

“It’s for me?” Yusuf said, getting up from the bed.

“You like blue.”

“I do. But it would look better on you,” Yusuf objected. “It would bring out the blue in your eyes.”

Nicolò just rolled said eyes and swung the cloak up and round so it settled on Yusuf’s shoulders. He fastened the clasp, his knuckles brushing against Yusuf’s throat. He ran his hands around the collar and pulled the hood up, sliding it gently over Yusuf’s curls. His thumbs glanced against Yusuf’s cheekbones, right at the hairline. Yusuf breathed. “Perfect,” Nicolò said with a pleased smile. 

“It’s beautiful, Nicolò,” Yusuf said, running his fingers down the edge of the material. It was. Nothing fancy, but the wool and the dye were of excellent quality, as was Nicolò’s needlework. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I assumed you were making it for yourself.”

“The green is for me.”

“Ah. To bring out the green in your eyes. Good thinking.” Nicolò just smiled and shook his head. Yusuf ran his fingers along the edge of the cloak again. “Why are you making us new cloaks?” Grateful as he was, there was nothing wrong with their old cloaks, and it wasn’t like Nicolò to lavish money on clothes unnecessarily. He also noted that these were of heavier, warmer wool than their existing cloaks.

“I know we hadn’t talked about it yet, but we couldn’t have stayed in Thessaloniki much longer. And I always assumed than when we left we would head east.”

Yusuf nodded. “I always assumed that too.” To find the women they dreamed about. They didn’t know where they were, except east and maybe north. And so, warmer cloaks. “When we’re finished here, then.” 

Even though he’d been the one to bring this up, and had even begun preparing for the journey, Nicolò didn’t look happy about it. “Yes. When we're finished here.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No. I want to find them. We should find them.” He fidled with his hair, a sure sign something was bothering him. Nicolò wasn’t a fidgeter.

“But?”

“I suppose I’m used to it being just the two of us.”

Something in Yusuf’s chest clenched, hard. “Oh. I suppose I am too. I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“Well. It will be a while yet. It will probably take some time to find them.”

“I expect so,” Yusuf agreed.

There was a long moment of silence which was cut off abruptly when Nicolò yawned widely, and unexpectedly if the way he clamped hand over his mouth was anything to go by. “Sorry,” he said, from behind his hand. 

“Do I bore you, Nicolò?”

Nicolò snorted. “Never. But we have had a hard day of doing nothing waiting for this idiot to show up at the palace.”

“Bedtime then,” Yusuf said, and Nicolò nodded, fighting off another yawn. 

They put away their needles and thread and got ready for bed. Yusuf folded his new cloak neatly and carefully tucked it away.

Yusuf got into bed and pressed himself against the wall to give Nicolò space to get in beside him. “I can’t wait to be back in my own bed. No offence,” he added, confident that Nicolò would not be offended anyway.

“None taken. I too look forward to not having you grope me in the middle of the night.”

“If you’re referring to this morning, I didn’t grope you. I had my arm across your waist. If you think that’s groping, I pity your lovers.”

“I’ve never had any complaints,” Nicolò said, getting in beside him. “And you probably kept me from falling out of bed so I suppose I should be grateful.” Yusuf hesitated only a moment before draping his arm across Nicolò’s middle so they were lying the way they had woken that morning. “That wasn’t an invitation.”

“Liar.” 

“Yusuf?” Nicolò said quietly.

“Hmm?”

“I am grateful, you know.”

“For what?”

“For you,” Nicolò said, making Yusuf’s chest ache again. “You dropped everything to come on this mad expedition to Venice. You’re sleeping in this terrible bed. You’ve spent two days watching the palace. And, well, I’m grateful.”

“Nicolò,” Yusuf said, and hoped it would convey everything he wanted. He pressed a kiss to the back of Nicolò’s head just to be sure. A tension Yusuf hadn’t even been aware of slipped from Nicolò’s back, so he assumed he’d been successful.

“Good night, Yusuf,” Nicolò said and Yusuf could tell he was smiling, just a little.

“Good night, Nicolò,” he said, and kissed his head again.

Nicolò’s breathing slowed and settled, and Yusuf was just drifting off when something occurred to him. “Nicolò?” he whispered, not sure if he was awake or not.

“Hmm?”

“Let me make your cloak.”

“What?”

“You said the green cloth was for your cloak. Let me make it for you.”

There was a pause. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

Another pause. “I would like that.”

“Good.” Yusuf tightened his arm, just enough for Nicolò to feel it, then relaxed again.

“Now go to sleep.”

~~

Watching the palace was incredibly boring without Yusuf. It hadn’t exactly been fun to begin with, but the experience definitely took a downturn when Yusuf was gone. This splitting up plan had better be worth it.

He wished, not for the first time, that he had Yusuf’s artistic temperament. It wasn’t his skill he envied, though he admired it, so much as the creative urge. Yusuf didn’t draw because he was bored or even because he enjoyed it, although he did. He drew because something Nicolò didn’t fully understand compelled him to. It wasn’t enough for Yusuf to simply look at a thing he found beautiful or interesting, he needed to somehow capture it, express how he felt about it. Yusuf added to the world, spoke with the world, rather than simply observing and listening. 

Also, if he could draw, Nicolò woud have something to do right now other than count pilgrims.

Eventually the boredom lulled him into a kind of watchful stillness that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. It got him through the morning, at least, until his stomach informed him it was time to meet Yusuf.

The Ospizio Orseolo was a cacophony of languages, some of which Nicolò couldn’t even recognise let alone understand. It was intended to provide accomodation for pilgrims but it got so busy at lunchtime nobody was checking who anybody was, and besides, no-one in this city said no to coin. It was right around the corner from Nicolò’s post opposite the palace and was where he and Yusuf had agreed to meet at midday.

It was so busy you could hardly move inside, but fortunately Yusuf was right by the door, chatting animatedly to someone Nicolò didn’t rcognise. This was not particularly surprising. Yusuf enjoyed meeting new people and they enjoyed meeting him. Nicolò couldn’t leave him alone for five minutes without him striking up a conversation with someone, let alone an entire morning. 

Yusuf spotted him and waved him over, straightening up from the wall. “Nicolò. There you are,” Yusuf said in Sabir. “This is Thomas,” he said, indicating the stranger he had been talking to. “Thomas, my friend Nicolò.”

It took Nicolò a moment to place the name as they shook hands. Thomas, the servant in Merrick’s household. The talkative one who was going to get into trouble one day. There were lots of Thomases in the world of course, but Nicolò would put money on this being that one. 

“I was surprised to bump into Yusuf,” Thomas said. “Since he made no mention of coming here when I told him this was where we were going.” This last was said with a pointed look at Yusuf, who grinned unrepentantly.

“Um,” said Nicolò, who had no idea what Yusuf had told this man about why they were here.

“Don’t worry, it’s fine,”Yusuf said in Arabic, before switching back to Sabir. “I told Thomas all about it.”

“Did you.” If Yusuf thought this was helpful, he was mistaken. 

“He did,” Thomas said, eagerly. “And I’m happy to help you in any way I can.”

“Really.”

“Yes. Honestly? His Lordship is an arsehole. Anything that spits in his eye is a good thing in my book.” Yusuf was right. This man was going to get himself into trouble. Nicolò found he liked him a lot.

Thomas took his leave, having to go back to his duties, and Yusuf and Nicolò decided to buy some fruit and bread from the shops nearby and go and eat by the water rather than battle the crowd in the hostel. 

“Alright,” Nicolò said, once they had taken the edge off their hunger. “What did you tell Thomas?”

“The truth. That Merrick had stolen your sword and you have pursued him to get it back.” There was more to it. Nicolò tore off a piece of bread and chewed it slowly while he watched the early spring sun glinting off the lagoon. “I told him that the sword had been your late brother’s and—”

“Oh God, why? Why must you always invent a dead brother for me?”

“But the tragically dead brother is so good,” Yusuf protested. “It suggests familial love and duty and loyalty, and people are impressed by those things. It gets people’s sympathy. It makes you sound like an honourable man—”

“Sound like?”

“—and because you hated your actual brother, I don’t cause you any emotional harm by invoking someone you actually cared about.”

“God in Heaven,” Nicolò muttered.

“I thought about making it your father’s sword since I know you didn’t like him much either,” Yusuf continued, apparently enjoying himself, “but I thought ‘dead father’s sword’ might be a a bit _too_ much, you know? Too dramatic. Don’t want to overdo it.”

“Right.”

There was another silence in which Nicolò ate grapes and continued to look steadfastly out at the lagoon. He thought Yusuf might be watching him but he’d be damned if he was going to turn his head to check. A grape slipped from his fingers and fell into the water with a plop, for which Nicolò completely irrationally and unfairly blamed Yusuf.

“He was your older brother,” Yusuf said after a few minutes.

“Please stop.”

“You need to know what I told Thomas so you don’t contradict me and fuck everything up.” Nicolò groaned. Yusuf ignored him. “He was eight years older than you so of course he was your hero. Before you’d reached double digits he was already a man, at least in your eyes. He was the one who taught you not only how to fight but how to live, how to be a man. When his sword passed to you following his tragically early, child-less demise, you vowed to live by the lessons he taught you. When Merrick stole the sword by nefarious, underhanded means, you had no choice but to pursue him.”

“Really. You went into this much detail?”

“Some of it might have been implied.”

“I see. And am I supposed to weep on cue when this harrowing tale is inevitably brought up again?”

“No, I think your manly stoicism will be more convincing.”

“Of course.”

“Perhaps a single tear could roll down your cheek, if you felt the moment called for it.”

“You are so full of shit,” Nicolò said, finally looking at him, fighting back a smile. Yusuf threw his head back and laughed, full-bodied.

“Ah, Nicolò, you wound me.”

“I will fucking wound you.” 

“Can I have a grape?”

“No.”

“Please.”

Nicolò sighed and offered Yusuf the bag. The grin he got in return was brighter than the sunlight on the water.

~~

Yusuf had found a bathhouse not far from their lodgings, so they made their way there after lunch. Yusuf hoped it would pull Nicolò out of the funk he kept slipping into. Even the ridiculous fake brother had only done the job temporarily. He was silent and contemplative as they meandered through the streets of Venice, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing or even particularly unusual, it was just… something was bothering him, and he wasn’t telling Yusuf what it was. It was unlike him. They talked about everything. Almost everything.

Yusuf had never been particularly good at being quiet or still. He had got better at it since meeting Nicolò but it wasn’t something that came naturally to him. Prayer was about the only time he was able to properly quiet his mind and his tongue and his fingers, though he had found something similar in the scratch of charcoal on the page and the concentration it required. But Nicolò needed quiet. Not all the time, or even most of the time, but it was a necessity for him in a way it wasn’t for Yusuf, and so Yusuf had tried to acquire the knack. He would probably never be as good at it as Nicolò, who had the happy ability to just appreciate and experience things without feeling the need to _do_ something about them, but he was good enough. It had served him well over the years, and not just in times when Nicolò was feeling taciturn.

The baths were quiet and they had the place to themselves barring the attendant. Yusuf sank down into the steaming water with a sigh. The ache in his bones must surely be a figment of his imagination, but he felt it all the same.

“What’s all the sighing about, old man?” Nicolò said. Yusuf turned to him with a sarcastic reply on the tip of his tongue that died when he looked at him. He was half turned away, the muscles in his back and shoulders shifting as he washed himself. Damp tendrils of hair clung to the back of his neck and his temples. “Yusuf?”

Right. Nicolò had asked him a question. “You’re in no position to be calling me old,” was the best he could come up with.

“You’re older than me.”

“Barely.” It was an old argument but suddenly Yusuf couldn’t summon up any enthusiasm for it. Nicolò’s mood appeared to have infected him.

For a while the only sound was the slight splashing as Nicolò moved around. Then he settled down beside Yusuf. “I’d ask if you want to talk about it, but I know that if you wanted to talk about it then you would.”

“I would.”

“So, then, tell me about Thomas instead.”

Yusuf stared at his friend, who did not appear to think he had said anything strange. Yusuf, unusually, didn’t know what to say. They did not hide their lovers from each other and they weren’t coy about the subject but they didn’t _discuss_ it. They didn’t share details. “I don’t think,” Yusuf began, then stopped when Nicolò laughed.

“God, no, I didn’t mean that. I meant, what did he tell you? About the Duke? Surely you didn’t spend your entire conversation on my fictional brother.”

“Right. Of course.” Merrick. That was why they were here. “Merrick’s here for another two days. Thomas said he would keep an eye out for anything useful, either the sword itself or anything that might help us get it. He’ll meet us tonight to tell us what he knows.”

“Two days? That doesn’t give us much time.”

“I know. But we’ve got an inside man now. That should help speed things along.”

~~

“He’s got the sword. Or at least one that sounds like what you described,” Thomas said. “He doesn’t seem to wear it, I think it might be too big for him. He’s not quite as tall as you,” he added, nodding at Nicolò. “Stubby arms.” 

He looked tall enough when I was looking up at him from the ground, Nicolò didn’t say. Yusuf had glossed over the details of just how Merrick had ended up with Nicolò’s sword, for which Nicolò was grateful. 

“Where does he keep it?”

“With the rest of the weapons. He’s carting around a small armoury. Worried about bandits.”

“Can you get at them? In the normal course of your duties, I mean,” Yusuf said.

“Not yet. And if I could, I’m not sure how I would get it out without being spotted.”

“What do you mean, not yet?” 

“Well, we leave in two days.”

“Ah, of course,” Yusuf said.

“Of course what?” Nicolò asked.

“Thomas is in charge of packing.”

“Exactly. The way I see it, your best bet is to be outside tomorrow night. I’ll bring everything down to the cart, including the sword, ready to leave first thing in the morning. Then I can just hand the sword over to you. Easy.”

It did sound easy. Worryingly easy. 

“How likely is it you’ll be able to do all this without being seen?” Nicolò said.

“Pretty likely, since I’ll be able to control where the other servants will be and when.”

“And what’s the risk to you if you do get seen?” Yusuf said.

“Or if he notices the sword is missing?” Nicolò added.

Thomas shrugged. “I’ve been thinking about looking for alternative employment anyway. I was going to wait until we got back to England but if I have to disappear before then it’s no hardship. I quite like it round here, to be honest. Weather’s nicer. Plenty of work for someone like me.”

“That doesn’t really answer the question,” Yusuf said. “What will Merrick do to you if you are caught?”

“Flogging, perhaps. Yelling. A stern glare,” Thomas said, as though these three were all the same. But he suddenly looked both a lot younger and a lot older than Nicolò had supposed him to be. “Wouldn’t be the first time. But it will be the last. So don’t worry about it.”

Very reassuring.

~~

Predictably, the whole operation was not as easy as Thomas had claimed, but in a way that none of them could ever have predicted.

It started with a dog and ended with a crying, wet child, and in the middle of it was a great deal of noise. Yusuf and Nicolò waited as per Thomas’ instructions, lingering in the entrance to the alleyway opposite the inn where Merrick was staying. In a lot of places this might have been conspicuous, but the bits of Venice that weren’t water consisted almost entirely of alleyways and people lingering in them and so they blended right in. As promised, Thomas appeared alone, carrying a long box which Yusuf knew contained swords, with another sword, wrapped, on top of the box. All they had to do was nip across to the cart, chat casually with Thomas as he loaded the box, and unobtrusively slide the wrapped sword off and secrete it under Nicolò’s cloak until they were away.

The dog seemed to appear from nowhere, darting out of the shadows and barrelling into Thomas as he loaded the cart. The box of swords went tumbling to the ground with a bang and a clatter, and this would have been a perfect opportunity for them to snatch Nicolò’s sword away, except the noise seemed to have driven the dog wild. He was barking and snarling, going first for Thomas, then Yusuf, then Nicolò, daring them to come closer. Thomas scrambled back, his eyes wide. Yusuf remembered the scars he’d seen on his leg. Thomas wasn’t going to be able to help.

The dog was between them and the sword, and window after window on the street was opened so the occupants could yell at them to shut the damn dog up, which served only to make the dog louder. Yusuf and Nicolò looked resignedly at each other. They didn’t want to hurt the dog. They didn’t want the dog to hurt them. But it seemed like one of those things was going to have to happen.

“Maybe a dip in the canal would calm the dog down,” Yusuf said. Nicolò did not look impressed with this suggestion.

“What if it can’t swim?”

“It’s a dog. All dogs can swim.”

“Fine.”

They moved towards the dog, bracing themselves to be bitten, or worse. This particular dog didn’t look like it would tear chunks out of them, but you never knew.

“What is all this racket about?” shouted a new, unfortunately familiar voice. Yusuf and Nicolò froze then pressed themselves into the shadows around the walls of the inn as the Duke of Merrick leaned out of an upstairs window. He followed it up with something in English, presumably directed at Thomas, who stammered something in response. Something that might have been an apple flew from Merrick’s window and hit the dog, which yelped and bolted. The sudden lack of barking was shocking, and in the comparative silence they heard a splash.

“Dog ended up in the canal anyway,” Nicolò said, eyeing his sword where it lay in the open. Yusuf glanced towards the canal. There was something strange about the splashing.

“That’s not the dog,” he realised, and started running, Nicolò right behind him. As he got closer he saw that the dog was in the canal after all, paddling happily, but the splashing he had seen was child. The dog must have bumped into her as it had bumped into Thomas, and they both went in. Yusuf followed without a thought.

The water was shocking, constricting his chest and throat. It was hard to swim, he was being dragged down by his feet. He’d forgotten to take his boots off before diving in. Left his cloak on too. Foolish of him. He took a slow breath to steady himself. He fumbled with the clasp of his cloak but his fingers were too slippery and numb and he couldn’t get it off. He’d have to keep it on, there was no time. The child was only a few feet away and he managed to get an arm around her, despite her thrashing. “It’s alright, I’ve got you,” he said in Venetian. “I’ve got you. Hold onto me.” She calmed down enough to do as he said, and by the time they reached the side where Nicolò was anxiously waiting to help them out, she could probably have swum by herself. She clung to Yusuf though, her weight threatening to pull them both under. “You need to let go, sweetheart,” Yusuf said, trying to disentangle her fingers. “It’s alright. This is Nicolò, he’ll look after you.” Eventually she nodded and let Yusuf pass her to Nicolò, who hauled her out of the water as though she were weightless. Yusuf stayed where he was, hands gripping the edge as he tried to gather the energy to pull himself and his soaking wet clothing out of the canal.

Then Nicolò was there, hands gripping under his arms. “Come on, old man,” he said in his ear. “No friend of mine is going to drown in a Venetian canal. Far too embarrassing.” Yusuf spluttered a laugh and pushed up with what strength he had in his arms while Nicolò pulled until they both ended up splayed on the floor in a puddle of water.

“Thank you,” Yusuf gasped.

“Reckless,” Nicolò said, as though he wouldn’t have done the same thing if he’d got there first.

“I prefer spontaneous. At worst impulsive.”

Nicolò gave him a look which said very clearly ‘you’re an idiot’, with an extra pointed look at his boots. The hand he used to brush Yusuf’s hair out of his eyes was trembling. “Are you alright?”

Yusuf nodded. Now he was no longer exerting his strength trying to stay afloat he was recovering quickly. The child stood nearby, wrapped in Nicolo’s cloak, crying quietly. “See to her. I’m fine.” Nicolò checked him over once more, then got up and went to the child.

“It’s alright, you’re safe now. Where is your mama? Where do you live?”

Yusuf sat up and peeled off his cloak. Fortunately it was his old one, the new one from Nicolò still carefully stored away in his bag. He knew the cloak wasn’t going to stay pristine, but he was glad he hadn’t dunked it in salt water mere days after receiving it. He wrung out his tunic as well as he could, which wasn’t very well, and got up off the floor. He squelched over to Nicolò and the girl, just as the girl’s mother arrived. After several rounds of tearful thanks, they managed to take their leave and made their way back towards the inn. Yusuf was surprised Thomas hadn’t found them at any point during the rescue or after, and then they rounded a bend in the street and saw why.

Merrick had emerged from the inn and was remonstrating with Thomas. In his hands, Yusuf saw with a sinking heart, was Nicolò’s sword. He tugged on Nicolò’s sleeve and they drew back into the shadows and waited. “What’s happened to his face?” Nicolò whispered. Yusuf peered into the darkness, worried that Merrick had indeed hurt Thomas for his carelessness loading the cart. But in the light of the inn’s windows Thomas’ face looked fine. If anything, he seemed bored. Then Yusuf realised Nicolò hadn’t been talking about Thomas, he’d been talking about Merrick. There was a large bruise on his jaw, and another high on his cheek. As he gesticulated his sleeve fell back, revealing a bandage on his wrist.

“His arm too, look,” Yusuf whispered.

“A fight.”

Yusuf nodded. Apparently his confrontation with Nicolò hadn’t been an aberration. He got into lots of fights, probably started by him. Yusuf supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. 

Merrick wound up his lecture and turned away to do something with the cart. Thomas glanced round anxiously and Yusuf waved to let him know they were safe. The anxiety left his face and he nodded tightly, before flattening his expression again as Merrick turned back. He snapped something at Thomas then strode back into the inn, Nicolò’s sword still in his hand.

~~

“Sorry you didn’t get your sword,” Yusuf said.

“It’s fine. It’s just a sword. Sorry you almost drowned.”

Yusuf laughed. “It didn’t go exactly to plan, did it?”

“Does anything?”

They were back in their room, Yusuf stripped out of his soaking wet clothes and wrapped in his new cloak on the bed. Nicolò stoked the fire in the tiny fireplace and tried to coax a bit more heat out of it. A knock at the door heralded supper, and Nicolò went to get it while Yusuf shivered. He thanked the serving girl with a smile and slipped a few extra coins into her hand. It was very, very late, or possibly very, very early, and she hadn’t even blinked when they staggered through the door, dripping water all over the floor and asking for food. She curtsied her thanks and left.

“Do you think Thomas is alright?” Yusuf asked as he accepted a steaming bowl of stew.

“He seems like he can take care of himself. I’m sure he’ll be fine.” There wasn’t much they could do if he wasn’t, they couldn’t even contact him to find out.

They ate quietly, Nicolò with half an eye on Yusuf to see how he was faring. They healed quickly but they weren’t immune to things like cold water and exhaustion and Yusuf had suffered the effects of both. He seemed to be doing fine though, better once he’d polished off the stew. Nicolò took the tray outside, locked the door, and sat down beside Yusuf. He looked him over critically, then pulled him into his arms. Yusuf leaned into him with a soft hum.

“Better?”

“Hmm. You’re warm.”

“That’s the idea.”

They stayed like that for a long time, listening to the crackle of the fire. Nicolò could feel the steady thud of Yusuf’s heartbeat. 

“You awake?” Nicolò said at last.

“Just about.”

“Did you want to stay here for a while? Or head east?”

“Here in Venice?” Yusuf asked. Nicolò nodded. “No.”

“East, then. Find the women.” Yusuf was silent. “Yusuf?”

“Let’s head west.”

Nicolò pulled away just far enough to see Yusuf’s face. “West?”

“Verona or Pavia or Parma or wherever we end up catching up with Merrick.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“What, are we short on time?”

“I don’t want the sword that badly.”

“Yes you do,” Yusuf said. “You are stubborn and you have a petty streak and you don’t like Merrick. You don’t want him to have your sword.”

“It’s just a sword.”

“It’s not just a sword. It’s an adventure and a challenge and you and I have been without those for too long. It’s standing up to a man I think hasn’t been stood up to often enough. It’s—” Yusuf smiled, small and fond. “It’s just the two of us, for a little while longer.”

Nicolò swallowed. “Well, when you put it like that.” He drew in a deep breath, felt his shoulders drop. “Looks like we’re going west.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ostentation that Nicolò is so disapproving of (all that marble and the fancy facade of St Mark's Basilica) was mostly looted from Constantinople when the Fourth Crusade sacked it in 1204. The palace was extended in this period, the buildings around Piazza San Marco rebuilt and the floor re-laid. As far as I can tell, the whole area was basically a building site for most of the 13th century.
> 
> Venice heaved with pilgrims in the Middle Ages. Whether it was quite as bad as modern Venice, with visitors outnumbering residents, I don't know, but transporting pilgrims to the Holy Land was big business.
> 
> I'm shifting my once a week posting schedule to once every two weeks but that's going to be, um, flexible. My energy levels are all over the place, I'm sorry.


	3. Torino

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Nicolò couldn’t remember the last time he’d so strongly disliked someone. Then it came to him. Yusuf. When they first met. That was the last time he’d so badly wanted to stab someone in the eye. Those feelings had changed, to say the least, but he didn’t see that happening with Merrick. Nicolò sent up a quick prayer for forbearance, and asked for extra for Yusuf._
> 
> Merrick makes Yusuf and Nicolò an offer they... can refuse, but don't want to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a week late, yay!
> 
> Actual 13th century armour was many-layered and complicated, like [this](https://sites.uwm.edu/carlin/clothing-armor-and-weapons-of-a-mid-thirteenth-century-english-knight/), and involved lots of chainmail. For the purposes of this chapter (and the whole story), please imagine something more like [this](https://www.andracor.com/en/p/leather-brigantine-adventurer-short--302753) kind of thing (wow, LARPing looks like an expensive hobby).

They didn’t catch up with Merrick in Verona. Or in Pavia or Parma. They were not equipped for a long over-land journey. They needed stronger boots, tougher clothes, armour, and provisions. Nicolò needed a sword, as even his glare would not be enough to deter the bandits that preyed on the roads. Neither of them commented on the fact that they were buying Nicolò a sword in order to steal back a different, virtually identical sword, though Yusuf badly wanted to.

By the time they were ready to go, Merrick was already several days ahead of them and despite the fact that his ridiculous entourage and all their possessions would slow him down, they couldn’t quite close the gap. It was only when Merrick stopped for several nights instead of the usual one that they were able to gain ground, and so it was in Turin that they finally caught up with them.

Merrick was easier to find in Turin, much smaller and quieter than Venice. A bit too easy to find, if anything.

“As I live and breathe. Genova, Isn’t it?” Merrick’s imperious, falsely cheerful voice accosted them as they made their way through the city in search of somewhere to stay. “And your companion… I don’t believe I ever caught your name.” 

“I don’t believe you did,” Yusuf said, feeling contrary and seeing no reason not to be. Merrick looked furious but did nothing about the impertinence. He turned his attention back to Nicolò.

“What are the chances of running into you here? Please tell me you haven’t followed me here because of that little incident at the taverna.”

“Of course not,” Nicolò lied. “We travel on business. But now that you mention it, I notice you have no need for the sword you stole.” He looked pointedly at Merrick’s belt, which carried only a dagger. “Perhaps you would like to return it.”

“Stole? I bested you in a fair fight,” Merrick said. Nicolò looked askance at this.

“The fight may have been fair but the terms were not. There was no mention before the fight that our swords were at stake.”

“Oh. Is that not standard where you’re from? I just assumed,” Merrick said in an innocent voice that was no more convincing than his friendly voice. He really was a worm. He looked thoughtfully at them both. “But there might be an opportunity for you to win back your trinket in another fair fight, if you’re interested. Could be some coin in it for you, too. You wouldn’t have to sleep on the ground as you travel then,” he said, looking them up and down with a sneer that seemed designed to be as infuriating as possible. Yusuf was not a man generally driven to violence if not in defence of himself or others, but he thought he could make an exception for the Duke of Merrick without losing too much sleep over it. He didn’t need to look at Nicolò to know that his thoughts were tending in the same direction. “No? Yes? I’ll tell you what. Meet me tonight at my inn—” he gestured to the building behind him — “and I’ll tell you all about it.” Without waiting for their answer, he turned and went inside, the door banging shut behind him.

“What a prick,” Yusuf said. Nicolò nodded.

“What do you suppose that was about?” 

“No idea. Should we trust him?”

“Of course not,” Nicolò scoffed.

“I meant, should we meet him tonight?”

“I am curious. And the worst he can do to us is waste our time. I say we go and find out what he wants. We can always tell him to fuck off if we’re not interested.”

Yusuf nodded. “I wonder why he’s stopping in Turin of all places.” 

“Maybe he wants to see the Shroud,” Nicolò said. “Or at least say he’s seen the Shroud.”

“So cynical, Nicolò. I’m sure the Duke’s piety is sincere and true.”

Nicolò did not look convinced.

~~

“I’m sorry, you want us to do what?” Yusuf said.

“Want is a strong word,” Merrick said. “It’s an opportunity I’m offering you. I’m curious as to what Nicolò here can do when he isn’t, ah, impaired. You too. He implied you were as good as him, but I have yet to see it. But if you choose not to, it’s no matter to me.” He sat back in his chair, looking unbearably pleased with himself.

Nicolò couldn’t remember the last time he’d so strongly disliked someone. Then it came to him. Yusuf. When they first met. That was the last time he’d so badly wanted to stab someone in the eye. Those feelings had changed, to say the least, but he didn’t see that happening with Merrick. Nicolò sent up a quick prayer for forbearance, and asked for extra for Yusuf.

“You’re telling us that the Lord of Turin organises sword-fighting contests, and you’re ‘giving us the opportunity’ to fight in one of them,” Yusuf said.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It’s an excellent test of skill and courage, without the mess and inconvenience of people dying,” Merrick said.

“I’m aware of what a sword-fighting contest is,” Yusuf said with biting patience. “I meant, why are we being invited?”

“You’re not. You’re being told about its existence. There are no invitations. Anyone can participate, provided they meet a certain benchmark of skill.” He glanced from Yusuf to Nicolò. “I enjoyed our little skirmish in Thessaloniki, brief as it was, but it’s just not the same as an official contest before a crowd.” He just wanted to show off, Nicolò realised. Merrick knew they were good but believed himself to be better, and wanted to show off in front of his friends. They were being set up to fail. “Think about it. First bouts start in two hours, finals tomorrow. Let the inn-keeper know if you decide to participate and I’ll have someone bring you.” He stood up and drained the rest of his cup. “Excuse me, gentlemen.” And he swept off, with his usual lackeys trailing behind. Nicolò caught a glimpse of Thomas among them. He seemed fine, if the cheery wave he gave them was any indication. If he’d received any kind of punishment for what happened in Venice, it didn’t seem to have had any lasting consequences.

“What do you think?” Yusuf asked when Merrick was out of earshot.

“He’s still a prick.”

“I don’t think that’s going to change. What do you think about what he said?”

Nicolò shrugged. He knew Yusuf was thinking the same thing he was. There was only one way to find out what Merrick was up to. There was only one way, now that Merrick knew they were here, to get Nicolò’s sword. And besides, they were both cursed with an excess of both curiosity and stubbornness. Going to this competition was inevitable.

Which was why they found themselves being led through the streets of Turin, not towards one of the main piazza’s or even outside the city, but deep into a maze of alleyways and side streets. Just as Nicolò was about to ask Merrick’s man where the hell he was leading them, they stepped out into a large but crowded open space. It was immediately obvious that the event was considerably less official than Merrick had claimed. If the Lord of Turin had any part in this, it was limited to turning a blind eye and taking his share of the coin.

“We are idiots,” Yusuf said in his ear. “If this were an official event organised by the city, it wouldn’t be taking place at night.” Nicolò nodded. He was going to string Merrick up by his toes.

It also soon became apparent that despite the dubiousness of, well, everything, things were well-organised. There were lanterns absolutely everywhere, so no part of the space, which Nicolò guessed would normally be a market, was in shadow. There were several roped-off areas where presumably the bouts took place, each one manned by someone who was either an arbitrator or a bookmaker. Or both. Crowds were already forming around each area and several swordsmen looked like they were preparing to fight.

Merrick’s man led them to the far corner and introduced them to the arbitrator there. “The Duke of Merrick has told me of your abilities,” she said in three different languages of varying fluency before hitting on Ligurian. “But you will both still need to undergo the initial test. First to disarm their opponent wins.” She summoned forward a hulking creature who had been standing against the wall behind him, and who Nicolò had taken for a statue until he moved. “Who wants to go first?” Yusuf gave him a wry look and stepped forward. Nicolò grinned. He liked watching Yusuf fight and rarely had the opportunity to do so when no-one’s life was at stake.

Yusuf’s advantage, besides his long years of experience, was that his style was very different to that of his opponent, and probably most of the other fighters here: swift, elegant, sweeping strokes that were particularly effective when applied to the face and neck. His disadvantage was that this would very definitely kill his opponent, which was not really in the spirit of the thing. It also tended to leave his torso more exposed than would be ideal. He made up for it by being incredibly quick and also by recovering almost instantly from anything short of a blade through the heart, but it was still a weak point.

The hulking creature was surprisingly light on his feet, and at first the fight resembled a dance more than anything else. Then Yusuf spotted his opening and took it, disarming his opponent with almost no effort at all. The official raised her eyebrows while the hulking creature looked at his empty hand in surprise. His feet may be swift but his thoughts clearly weren’t. Yusuf grinned and stepped back, and the official beckoned Nicolò forward. “Not bad, old man,” he murmured to Yusuf in Arabic as he passed. Yusuf’s grin widened.

“I do my best in my decrepitude.”

Nicolò’s own fight was over almost as quickly. He knew he and Yusuf were good but he was starting to suspect the benchmark of skill participants had to meet was ‘do you know which end of the sword to hold?’ Perhaps they were short of fighters and were willing to take anyone who could prove they wouldn’t accidentally kill themselves mid-fight.

“Very well,” the official said. “Take these over there and wait your turn.” She tossed them a wooden token each and gestured at the roped-off area behind them, then appeared to be done with them. 

“That was much easier than I anticipated,” Yusuf said as they made their way over. “I don’t like it.”

“What, those bandits outside Bologna weren’t enough excitement for you? You need more?”

“I feel like our way has been smoothed for us and I can’t imagine it’s for any reason that would be to our benefit.”

“What do you think Merrick meant earlier? When he said I could win my sword back in another fair fight? How?”

“I don’t know. I assumed that the fights offered prize money, but maybe you can win your opponent’s sword instead?”

“But I might not even end up fighting him. There are dozens of fighters here. He can’t grease the palms of every official here, it would cost a fortune. To what end? To show off? Why?”

“Always so many questions, Nicolò, when you know I have no answers. Maybe he lied. Maybe he just said that to get your attention long enough to convince us to do this.”

That certainly sounded like Merrick. “That still wouldn’t explain how or why he’s going to ensure I fight him.”

“Maybe he’s not. Maybe they just needed more fighters. If the tournament can’t go ahead for lack of participants then Merrick can’t show off or win the prize money or whatever it is he’s after.” It wasn’t a million miles away from what Nicolò himself had been thinking. He still wasn’t satisfied though.

“I don’t like it,” he grumbled. 

“I don’t either. You want to leave?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“And I’m supposed to be the reckless one.”

~~

Bathhouses, Yusuf believed, were humanity’s greatest invention. Sure, the wheel and farming and mathematics and medicine or whatever, but did any of them combine necessity with pleasure in the way that bathhouses did? No, they did not. The heat, the steam, the soft comfort of the water. You could be quiet or you could talk or—

“You know, it’s amazing,” Nicolò said as he scrubbed his hair. “I can hear your speech about the glory of baths even though you’re not saying a word.”

“That _is_ amazing. How did you know?”

Nicolò hummed thoughtfully. “I’m not sure. You look how you normally look when you’re giving your bath speech.”

“Oh come on, I don’t talk about baths that much. Do I?”

“Probably not. But we’ve known each other a very long time. Even if you only give the bath speech once a year, I’ve heard it over a hundred times. Besides, I listen when you talk.”

“As you should.” 

“And you’re right about baths.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re wrong about many other things, but you’re right about baths.”

“Thank you,” Yusuf said again, heavier on the sarcasm this time. Nicolò just grinned at him, unrepentant. Soap dripped from his hair and ran down his chest. Yusuf flicked some water at him, laughing at his surprise. There was a droplet on his nose and several clinging to his eyelashes but it was really only a very little bit of water and he absolutely did not deserve the wave that Nicolò sent at him in retaliation. “Nicolò,” he gasped as water dripped in his eyes and his so-called friend cackled. “That is inappropriate bathhouse behaviour.”

“Maybe in your fancy bathhouses in Mahdia. I think Turin has lower standards.”

“Well, they let you in.”

Whatever response Nicolò was going to make was cut off by the sound of an ever-unwelcome voice from the next room. “Are you kidding me?” Yusuf said, looking round for an escape.

“Lower standards indeed,” Nicolò muttered, and disappeared under the water just as the Duke of Merrick entered the room.

“Ah, Yusuf,” the Duke said, as though they were old friends. Yusuf bit the inside of his cheek. “What are the chances of running into you here?” Pretty high, actually, now Yusuf thought about it. They had deliberately chosen an inn close to Merrick’s, the better to keep an eye on him, and had not considered that this would increase the likelihood of running into him unexpectedly. They really needed to start thinking things through more carefully.

“It’s—” Yusuf began, a neutrally polite ‘it’s good to see you’ springing automatically to his tongue. But it wasn’t good to see him and the words stopped themselves in his mouth. “Hello.”

“Where is your friend? It’s unusual to see you one without the other,” said Merrick, who had seen them maybe three times in his life.

“Um,” said Yusuf, not wanting to say ‘under the water, hiding from you’. He wasn’t sure why he was even bothering to hide their dislike of the man except the bathhouse felt very different from a taverna or an inn. He felt compelled to adhere to social niceties here, even with Merrick.

“I hear you did very well at the tournament last night.” Merrick’s eyes raked over Yusuf’s arms and chest. “And I see it too. Not a mark on you.”

“Ah, good armour,” Yusuf said, hoping this would come off as modesty and not lying. Even with the best protection last night’s fights should have left bruises. Merrick nodded.

“Well, the early rounds are quite easy. It will be a lot harder tonight, now we’ve sorted out the chaff.”

“Hmm. Should be a good challenge,” Yusuf said, wondering how long Nicolò intended to stay underwater. Yusuf had seen people who could hold their breath for an uncannily long time, but Nicolò wasn’t one of them. Surely he wasn’t going to choose to die down there rather than come out and make polite small-talk with Merrick. And he accused Yusuf of being dramatic.

“I didn’t see you fight myself, I was busy with my own bouts, but I heard your names being passed around. Got the bookmakers into quite a flap, you two have.”

“Really?” Yusuf moved his foot as surreptitiously as he could, trying to locate Nicolò so he could give him a swift kick, preferably up the backside. “We’ve never participated in these kinds of organised fights before. It’s been interesting.” His foot connected with something and he shoved it, hard. The water rippled, but Nicolò did not appear.

“Oh? I would never have guessed, based on what I’ve heard and what I saw of Nicolò in Thessaloniki.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. We’ve done plenty of fighting. It’s just that usually our opponents end up a lot more dead than I think you would want in a friendly tournament,” Yusuf said with a smile, and took great satisfaction in the way Merrick’s jovial demeanour slipped, just for a moment.

“Well, of course, I— ah!” Merrick yelped and stumbled back, slipping on the wet floor, as Nicolò emerged from the water. “What in—” he spluttered from the ground.

“Ah, that’s where you were,” Yusuf said. Merrick stared at him incredulously. “I forgot.”

“What were you doing down there?” Merrick demanded. Yusuf considered saying ‘sucking me off’ just to see how Merrick would react but he decided that speaking that notion into the air would be a bad idea. Nicolò could explain himself. He’d left Yusuf to speak two entire sentences to this idiot and listen to more. It was his turn to deal with him.

Nicolò shrugged. “It relaxes me.” Yusuf bit back a laugh.

“Relaxes you?”

“Yes. It’s very quiet under the water. Peaceful.”

“Right” Merrick said looking at them both as though they were mad. “Well it’s been lovely to talk to you gentlemen, but I’m very busy, so. Good day.” With one last bemused look at them, he went back the way he had come.

“Guess he didn’t want to bathe after all,” Yusuf said.

“Guess not. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Welcome? For what?”

“Rescuing you.”

“Rescuing me?”

“From what I’m sure was an unpleasant or at least awkward conversation.”

“A conversation I would not have been stuck in if you hadn’t hidden under the water like a child behind its mother’s skirts.”

“I needed to rinse the soap out of my hair.”

Yusuf half-heartedly flicked some more water at him and laughed. “Did you see his face though?”

“You see? I was right to bide my time.”

“Hmm.”

“What did he have to say for himself? Anything of interest?”

“Not sure. He did notice that I wasn’t hurt, which we could do without. But apparently our skill has been noted.”

“Oh?”

“Did you investigate the gambling at all last night?”

“Not really. Why?” Yusuf gave him his best sceptical look. “I didn’t! I was with you the whole time.”

“Hmm. Well, apparently we’ve upset the bookmakers.” He frowned at the opposite wall, not looking at Nicolò running the soap over his legs. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Merrick made a tidy profit last night, betting on us while we were unknown quantities.” Nicolò made an indeterminate noise. “You disagree?”

“I’m not sure. We had to fight that initial bout, remember, to determine if we were good enough. Surely they mentioned to the officials that we both disarmed the tester almost straight away. We weren’t entirely unknown quantities. But maybe the standards for entry were low, maybe everyone disarms him really quickly.” He threw his soap to Yusuf, who only just caught it before it hit him in the chest. “Do you intend to wash or will the water just remove the dirt from your skin by itself?”

Yusuf absently ran the soap over his arms and chest, his mind still on last night. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, pulling the threads of a thought together. “Perhaps Merrick is more involved in the organisation of this thing than he lets on. Perhaps he doesn’t make money gambling, perhaps he makes money setting the odds.” He glanced up at Nicolò to see what he thought of this idea, only to find him lost in thought, looking at him but apparently not seeing him. “Nicolò? Nicolò.”

Nicolò’s eyes snapped up to Yusuf’s face. “Sorry, what?”

“Are you listening to me?”

“Yes. Of course.” And he was, eyes as attentive as ever. “You think Merrick is running the betting?”

“Maybe?”

“So, the competition is rigged.”

“Not necessarily. But it could be. Or at least, not entirely on the level.”

Nicolò huffed and sank down into the water up to his chin. “I like this competition less and less.”

“As do I. Are we still going tonight?”

“Of course.”

~~

The tournament that night was, if anything, even more crowded than the night before, even though there were fewer fighters. Nicolò and Yusuf had a hard time forcing their way through the crowd to their appointed ring, and Yusuf very nearly had to forfeit his match. Nicolò went to talk to the bookmaker, and when he returned Yusu was still arguing with the official, who gave in when the crowd insisted that they just fucking get on with it. Yusuf arrived in the ring flustered and pissed off and not inclined to play nice.

He smiled when he realised his opponent was the Duke of Merrick. He dipped his head in a bow and said “Good evening, your Lordship,” in a tone that dripped with so much sincerity that it could not possibly be mistaken for actually being sincere. Even from the other side of the ring, Nicolò could see the way Merrick clenched his jaw. Yusuf threw him a wink and Nicolò grinned.

The official had barely rung the bell before Yusuf had Merrick skipping backwards to avoid a flurry of strikes. In his surprise he appeared to have forgotten that he could block and was focused on getting as far away from Yusuf’s scimitar as he could. His back hit the rope and apparently reminded him that he had a weapon in his hand, which he swung up, arcing towards Yusuf’s head. The movement halted abruptly when Yusuf’s blade sliced across his shoulder, finding the gap in the armour. The strike was deflected, either by the edge of Merrick’s armour or the padding underneath, but it was enough to disrupt Merrick’s attack. Merrick ducked away from the return slice and managed to twist out of his position against the rope.

There was no pause for breath as they went at each other, each searching for their opening. Yusuf usually disarmed his opponent by flicking the sword out of their hand, but in Merrick’s case he obviously wasn’t concerned if the hand went with it. Merrick seemed more interested in going for Yusuf’s torso, which was not an ideal tactic if your aim was to disarm someone, and it did not endear him to Nicolò one bit. He got under Yusuf’s guard more than once, Yusuf darting out of the way and countering with sweeps of his scimitar that bit into Merrick’s armour again and again. Sooner or later he was going to find a weak point and Merrick knew it, his blows getting heavier and heavier as he attempted to force the scimitar out of Yusuf’s hand. 

Yusuf was getting the upper hand, still focused and in control where Merrick was getting increasingly frustrated and starting to make mistakes. Nicolò wondered if he had ever had to fight for his life. A wild swing that threw him off balance left him wide open for Yusuf to disarm him, and he barely blocked the move. Yusuf’s blade glanced across his hand, a thin line of red appearing in its wake. The crowd roared as blood ran over Merrick’s knuckles and Yusuf smiled grimly. It was a shallow cut and hadn’t done any damage, but it did not look good for Merrick.

There were no points for injuring your opponent though. The winner was whoever disarmed their opponent first, and Nicolò had seen more than one bout the night before turn quickly through a moment’s distraction or inspiration or just pure luck. Or, in Merrick’s case, pure cheating. He found his way through Yusuf’s guard again, but instead of going for the strike he stepped in close, grabbed him by the shoulder and, in a highly illegal move, flung them both into the supporting post of the ring, twisting round and elbowing him in the jaw as he did so. Then he took a step back and smashed the pommel of his sword against Yusuf’s wrist, crushing it against the post. Yusuf’s face contorted in pain.

The crowd screamed and Nicolò swore in a confusion of languages as the official hopped into the ring to pull Merrick away from Yusuf. He went easily, his objective accomplished. Yusuf had managed to keep hold of his sword, but the impact would have done serious damage and it could easily have broken his wrist. Of course, it had healed already but no-one but Nicolò could know that.

Merrick was awarded two penalties, one for pushing Yusuf into the post and the other for the elbow to the face, which was conveniently one point less than the three needed for him to be disqualified. Breaking Yusuf’s wrist was deemed acceptable as it was, in itself, a perfectly viable way of disarming someone. 

Neither Nicolò nor the crowd were happy about this. Nor was Yusuf. Cradling his supposedly injured arm, his scimitar held in his left hand, he argued that any aspect of the illegal move should also be deemed illegal. Just because it was acceptable to smash his wrist during the normal course of a fight did not mean it was acceptable to smash it against the post when he shouldn’t have been on the post in the first place. The official argued that by Yusuf’s logic everything Merrick had done was one illegal move and in fact merited only one penalty rather than two, so perhaps he’d like to quieten down and get on with the fight if he was able to do so. Yusuf countered that this was not what it meant at all, so perhaps the official would like to check the rules and also explain to him how it was physically possible for the official to lick Merrick’s arse when he had his head shoved so firmly up his own. Yusuf also wondered if there was room up there for his foot. Yusuf received a penalty point for threatening the official, which Nicolò hadn’t even realised was a rule. Merrick looked so unbearably smug that Nicolò couldn’t believe he wasn’t disqualified just on principle. Nicolò shouted several things that would have done Yusuf no good at all if the official had been able to hear them.

The crowd was in uproar and the whole thing was in danger of erupting into something seriously unpleasant. Two more officials joined the one in the ring and there was a great deal more arguing on all sides. The crowd was now so loud that Nicolò couldn’t make out anything that was being said. After some vociferous shouting and gesturing from Yusuf and what Nicolò was sure were some snide remarks from Merrick, the officials decided the matter by disqualifying them both. This was monstrously unfair and Yusuf said so, at length.

Completely unsurprisingly, a fight broke out somewhere in the crowd and the officials hurried to deal with it, threatening them with the wrath of the guards and a trip to the city’s dungeons. “That goes for you two as well,” one of them added over his shoulder to Yusuf and Merrick. “You’re done. Go.” Merrick looked affronted but apparently knew when a battle was lost and stalked off without so much as a glance at Yusuf or Nicolò. Yusuf walked over to Nicolò with a rueful smile and Nicolò ducked under the rope into the ring to escape the pushing and shoving behind him.

“That was unexpected,” Nicolò said, slipping his arm around Yusuf’s shoulder. All the tension dropped out of Yusuf’s face and he laughed, his hand settling on the small of Nicolò’s back.

“That’s one word for it.” He looked round the ring with a frown. “I can’t believe I let him take me by surprise like that.”

“You couldn’t possibly have seen that coming.”

“If this had been a real fight I’d have been in trouble. I know better.”

“If this had been a real fight you would have been prepared for dirty tricks. It’s not your fault you assumed Merrick would follow the rules.”

“Do you think if I’d just carried on with the fight instead of letting my mouth get away from me I’d have won?”

Nicolò considered it. He would have had to fight left-handed, which he could do. It was something they’d worked on ever since the incident in Cairo where Nicolò had lost half his right arm to a crocodile. It took time for limbs to grow back and it was useful to be able to fight with the other hand if necessary. But he would also have to pretend his right wrist was seriously injured, which would split his concentration. He wouldn’t be able to do it for long. “No, I don’t think so,” he said in the end.

“Good. Then I don’t need to feel bad about the things I said to the officials.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Maybe for what I said about the second one’s mother. That might have been over the line.”

“Well, you managed to get Merrick disqualified as well, so it wasn’t all bad.”

“That’s true,” Yusuf said, brightening. He looked around at the crowd. The tumult around them had died down but there was still a lot of noise. Over it, someone was calling Nicolò’s name.

“Oh, shit. I’ve still got to fight.” In the excitement of Yusuf’s bout with Merrick, he’d forgotten all about it. “Do you think I can withdraw?” He’d rather lost his taste for this tournament. And with Merrick disqualified, he wasn’t even getting his sword back. Yusuf looked apologetic.

“Honestly? I think we could do with the money.”

Nicolò groaned. Yusuf was right, their purses were shrinking by the day. “Very well.”

“How much did you lose?”

“What?” Nicolò said, as though he didn’t know.

“Betting on me to win.”

“Not much. Probably more than we can afford though. You were supposed to be a sure thing,” he muttered. Yusuf winced. “Sorry.”

“Well. Try not to get disqualified and maybe we can earn it back.”

~~

They peeled themselves out of their armour and clothing in the early hours of the morning with groans and wrinkled noses. “We’re going to bathe before we leave, right?” Nicolò said.

“You certainly are,” Yusuf said, taking in the state of Nicolò’s shirt.

“Yes, well, some of us fought three bouts tonight not half of one.”

Yusuf sniffed at this and didn’t respond, to which Nicolò smiled and squeezed Yusuf’s shoulder.

The bucket of water in the corner of the room was… not warm. But it was better than nothing, so they quickly removed the worst of the sweat from their bodies with a damp cloth and used the remainder of the water to rinse out their shirts. “If you win the next tournament instead of allowing some child in his brother’s armour to get lucky in the semi-final, we might be able to afford some new clothes,” Yusuf said, pulling on a fresh shirt. For a given value of fresh. “Hey!” he objected as something wet hit him in the back of the head. He looked down to find Nicolò’s shirt by his feet.

“Maybe you will win the next tournament, if you can control your mouth long enough.”

Yusuf bent and picked up the shirt between thumb and forefinger, and draped it over the nearest chair. It didn’t smell much better after its dunking in the bucket than it had before. It wasn’t as though he wasn’t used to sweat and dirt; when they were on the road they didn’t remove their armour for days on end. But it was so much more unpleasant in the city where bathing, while unfeasible at this hour, was an actual possibility. Yusuf thought longingly of their apartment in Thessaloniki, with its plentiful supply of water, soap, and clean clothes. Restless though they had become, their lives there had definitely had benefits that a life of travel just didn’t. “You’re right. I let Merrick get to me, and it cost us. I’ll do better next time.”

“I should think— wait. You’re serious. You want to do this again? I thought you meant some hypothetical tournament.”

“No, I got talking to some people last night while you were occupied—”

“Occupied earning us some money.”

“To replace the money you lost gambling.”

“Gambling on you to win. Which you did not.”

“Right. Anyway, apparently it’s not just Turin. They have these fights all over the place. Next one’s in Dijon.”

“Let me guess. Merrick is also going to Dijon.”

“It is on his route, yes.” Yusuf put their swords and daggers in their usual places before climbing into bed. “I think we can forget my theory that Merrick’s running the betting. If things were rigged I don’t think he’d have been disqualified.”

"Maybe." Nicolò checked the door was locked and slipped into bed beside him. The bed here was a little bigger than the one in Venice had been but not by much. Nicolò lay facing him, looking thoughtful. “How many people would have bet on both participants being disqualified? Not many. So the bookmakers keep the money of the people who bet on you to win _and_ the people who bet on him, and don’t have to pay anything out.”

“So he deliberately got himself disqualified and then goaded me into getting myself disqualified too? How could he possibly know—” Yusuf realised he didn’t want to finish that sentence.

“Know how easy you are to rile up?” Nicolò said, grinning tiredly.

“Shut up.”

“Well, he’s met you.”

“But why? What does Merrick get out of it? I know, money. But he already has money.”

Nicolò shrugged. “Rich men always want to be richer.” He fell quiet, his eyes heavy. It was late, probably not far off dawn, and he’d had a hard night. His hair was still damp with sweat.

It would be incredibly easy to lean forward and kiss him. Yusuf was certain that Nicolò would kiss him back. Nicolò was largely inscrutable to those who didn’t know him, but once you did know him there was little he could hide from you. He knew Nicolò better than anyone, perhaps he knew Nicolò better than any human being had ever known another. If he kissed Nicolò, Nicolò would kiss him back.

And then what? Nicolò was his friend. Yusuf didn’t know what would happen if he became his lover.

It wasn’t that he was afraid of losing him. No failed romance or awkward encounter would drive either of them away from the other. He was sure of that. It was the _only_ thing he was sure of. The world changed around them and they remained the same, a fixed point, a constant. Their friendship was the ground beneath Yusuf’s feet. It was steady, solid. It was the reason Yusuf was able to walk forward into an endless future he mostly found exciting rather than terrifying. The thought of changing that, of disrupting the one stable thing in his life, was too much. He was a coward and he knew it, but he couldn’t help it. Some risks he simply couldn’t take.

“Stop thinking so much,” Nicolò murmured, his eyes drifted closed now, and for a heart-stopping moment Yusuf thought everything was about to change anyway, whether he wanted it to or not. But Nicolò just rolled over onto his other side so his back was to Yusuf as it usually was. “Go to sleep.” 

Yusuf slipped his arm into its now-accustomed position across Nicolò’s waist. He could tell by the movement as he breathed that he was, if not already asleep, about to be so. There was negligible space between them, and Nicolò’s broad back was warm and solid against his chest.

This. This would be alright. He could live with this. Their friendship was a gift. Nicolò was a gift. That was enough. It was more than enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you mean there wasn't a semi-official underground network of medieval fight clubs across 13th century Europe? You can't prove that.
> 
> This is not an accurate depiction of sword-fighting.
> 
> The Turin Shroud was not in Turin at this time and may not have existed. Just reading about [the history of it](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shroud_of_Turin) gives me a headache.
> 
> Bathing was common and popular throughout Europe in the Middle Ages (the water avoidance began later), so the amount of bathing in this fic is actually historically accurate and not just an excuse for them to take their clothes off, honest. [Here](https://www.scotsman.com/arts-and-culture/when-public-sex-was-part-bathtime-1442204) is my favourite article on the subject.


	4. The Great St Bernard Pass - An Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's cold in the mountains and Yusuf isn't happy about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regrets, I have a few. And one of them is structuring this story the way I have which, among other things, makes each chapter really long. Anyway, here's a much shorter interlude of Nicolò and Yusuf on the road.

“I’m going to kill Merrick,” Yusuf declared. Nicolò considered pointing out that their current predicament wasn’t _technically_ the Duke of Merrick’s fault, but it had been a very long time since Yusuf had last stabbed him and Nicolò didn’t really want him to start again now.

They had thought they were prepared for this part of the journey. They _had_ been prepared for this part of the journey. And yet they had still ended up soaked to the skin with no firewood, minimal food, and no idea how far they were from shelter. It wasn’t starting to get dark yet but it would soon, and the evening sun glaring off the mountain peaks was blinding. It did nothing to improve Yusuf’s mood.

“Fucking bandits,” Yusuf muttered, kicking at a stone. It skittered off the path and landed with a soft thwump in a pile of snow.

“I still feel bad about not burying them,” Nicolò said. They had tried but the ground was too hard, and anything that might have helped in the task had tumbled down the mountain with their firewood and most of their food. There hadn’t even been anything to cover them with.

“If they wanted a proper burial they shouldn’t have been attacking innocent people on the road,” Yusuf grumbled, which was not an unreasonable point but Nicolò knew he wasn’t happy about the situation either. “We’ll tell the monks about them when we reach the hospice. _If_ we reach the hospice.”

“They’re not actually monks,” Nicolò said, because he just couldn’t help himself. “Technically they’re—”

“I don’t care,” Yusuf said, rounding on him. “I don’t care if they’re monks or priests or whatever the fuck a canon is. I don’t—” He stopped as a snowflake landed on his cheek. Another landed on his lip. “Is it snowing? Is it fucking snowing? It’s June! Why is it fucking snowing in June?” 

“Is that a rhetorical question?”

“What is wrong with this place?” Yusuf said, as though he’d never travelled through mountains before. “How do you people live here?”

“People? What people?”

“You, you people,” he said, waving his arms in the direction they had come from, possibly indicating Genoa, or perhaps the whole Italian peninsula. “It’s snowing in June.” And he sat down on a hummock of grass and glared at the mountains. Nicolò hesitated a moment then sat down beside him. It wasn’t as though they could get any wetter. 

“There’s still an apple if you want it,” Nicolò said after they had watched the falling snow in silence for a while. Really it was only a few drifting flakes. He pulled the apple out of his bag and passed it to Yusuf.

“Thank you.” Yusuf took out his knife, cut the apple in half, and passed one of the halves to Nicolò. 

They finished the apple and Yusuf ran his hands over his face and sighed. “Sorry. Things are bad enough without me throwing a tantrum.”

Nicolò nodded. “Yes. It was pretty funny though.”

Yusuf laughed and shoved at his shoulder. “You’re an asshole.”

“But I’m your favourite asshole.”

“You are. You’re also shivering. Fuck. Come on. We need to get moving.” He got up and pulled Nicolò to his feet. “You have snow in your hair,” he said, brushing the flakes away. His fingers caught in the tangles. “Why don’t you have your hood up?”

“Sorry, Mother.”

Yusuf glared at him. “Please don’t ever call me that again. This clasp still isn’t right, is it?” He fiddled with the fastening on Nicolò’s cloak. He had begun sewing it when they left Venice and managed to get it finished before they began their journey through the mountains despite, as Yusuf put it, Nicolò’s truly awkward and unnecessary shoulders complicating matters. Nicolò had bent the clasp the first day he wore it and it hadn’t been right since. 

“Try not to stab me in the throat with the pin this time.”

“Well, if you hadn’t broken it—” Yusuf began, then broke off to mutter something about stabbing him with something other than a pin. Apparently now satisfied with the clasp he pulled the hood up over Nicolò’s hair. “I was right you know,” he said with a soft smile.

“About what this time?”

“This colour.” He ran his hands down the hood, over Nicolò’s shoulders, and back up. “It does bring out the green in your eyes.” He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Nicolò’s forehead, followed by a rueful huff of laughter, warm against his skin. “Sorry for being grumpy.”

“You are forgiven,” Nicolò said solemnly. 

“Thank you.” Yusuf’s equally solemn tone was completely undermined by the twinkle in his eye.

They continued the climb up the path. They had no idea how far they were from the hospice and could only hope they reached it before nightfall. It got cold at night. Obviously they didn’t need to worry about this as much as other people did, but still. They had never frozen to death and they wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible. Or at least, Nicolò did.

“It’s supposed to be one of the better ways to go, you know,” Yusuf said, when Nicolò brought up the prospect of dying of exposure.

“Seriously?”

“Peaceful. Like falling asleep.”

“Isn’t the part before the falling asleep horrible though?”

“Possibly.”

“I’d prefer not to find out.”

“I’m not saying I want to, just that if we did it wouldn’t— what was that?” 

It came again — a voice calling out from up ahead in a language that sounded similar to Ligurian and Venetian but wasn’t either of them. It took some digging down in Nicolò’s brain for him to recognise it as Romansh, and even more digging for him to work out what had been said. By that time, the voice had cycled through several other languages and was a lot closer.

“Hello? Do you need help?” the voice said in Ligurian.

“One of us does,” Nicolò said under his breath, before adding more loudly, “Hello, yes. Are you from the hospice?”

“If you’re more bandits,” Yusuf added, “I should warn you I’m not in the mood.”

The voice chuckled. “I promise we’re not bandits. I’m sorry if you’ve had trouble with them.” They rounded a bend in the path and saw that the voice was indeed not a bandit, or if it was, it was a very strangely dressed one. With a very large dog, or possibly a small horse. Beside him, Yusuf let out an audible gasp.

“Is he friendly?” he asked, starting forward before checking himself. The priest laughed.

“Yes, very. He wouldn’t be very helpful as a rescue dog if he wasn’t. You can come and say hello.”

That was all the permission Yusuf needed. He darted forward and fell to his knees in front of the dog. Nicolò followed at a more normal pace. “Nicolò, look,” Yusuf said gleefully as he approached, his hands buried in the dog’s fur.

“He’s nice,” Nicolò admitted.

“My friend is more of a cat person,” Yusuf explained to the priest. 

“I like dogs. Just not as much as some people.”

“Do you also like warmth and shelter and food?” the priest asked.

“Yes,” said Nicolò.

“Very much,” said Yusuf.

“Then come with me. We should reach the hospice before it gets dark,” the priest said, turning and beginning the walk back up the path. Nicolò and Yusuf followed, Yusuf still with a hand buried in the dog’s fur. “I am Father Alberto, and my furry friend here is Petro.” 

“Nicolò. And my friend is less furry than yours, but his name is Yusuf,” Nicolò said. Alberto laughed. Yusuf rolled his eyes but did not object to being introduced in this fashion.

“We will most likely be too late for vespers, but you are welcome to join us for compline, if you wish.”

“Oh,” said Nicolò, who hadn’t partaken in communal prayer for many years, though he knew Yusuf still sought it out from time to time. “Thank you, but, um…”

“You do not have to explain yourself to me,” Father Alberto said placidly. “The invitation is merely there if you wish to accept.”

“I’m afraid I must also decline,” Yusuf said. “But for different reasons than my friend.”

“You do not need to explain yourself either.”

“Then you are kinder to me than Nicolò. He makes me explain myself all the time.”

The canons’ table was plain but generous, with lots of bread, cheese and honey, and no shortage of wine to wash it down with. The guest room they were shown to was also plain but generous; scrupulously clean with whitewashed walls, plenty of water, and two beds. They both stopped in the doorway. Yusuf recovered first.

“Can’t remember the last time I saw a room with two beds,” he said, stretching out on the nearest one.

“Thessaloniki,” Nicolò said.

“Right.” Yusuf reached his arm across the gap between the beds. His finger-tips just brushed the mattress. “Hmm. Not close enough to shove you when you snore.”

“I don’t snore,” Nicolò objected, sitting on the bed.

“How do you know? You’re asleep when you’re doing it.”

“You have literally never mentioned it. Not once in all this time.”

“I wasn’t sure how to raise the subject. Don’t want to hurt your feelings.” Nicolò snorted. “Like that. You sound like that, but without the laughter.”

“I can’t believe you’ve been suffering in silence this whole time,” Nicolò said dryly.

“You doubt me,” Yusuf said, doing a terrible job of looking hurt.

“In this? Yes.” 

Yusuf sighed heavily, then yawned. “Bedtime,” he said, and Nicolò did not argue.

It was strange. When they travelled they did not sleep together as one was always on watch while the other slept. They only shared a bed when they stayed at inn, and that they had not done for ten years before they started this journey. Nicolò slept apart from Yusuf far more than he slept with him. And yet. He could not sleep.

He could not sleep and he knew it was because Yusuf was not beside him, his arm was not around his waist. There was no breath against his neck, no heat at his back.

He tossed and turned, and there was no complaint from the other bed, which meant Yusuf was definitely asleep. And Nicolò wasn’t. 

Nicolò had always been a light sleeper, but he had also always been an easy sleeper. He never had any difficulty drifting off, no matter where he was. But now, apparently, if he was in a bed he needed Yusuf to be in the bed with him.

He stared at the ceiling and waited for sleep or the dawn, whichever came first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [hospice](https://pilgrimstorome.org.uk/guide-to-crossing-the-great-st-bernard-pass/) of the Canons Regular of St Bernard of Menthon was built in 1050 in an attempt to eradicate banditry from the area and protect travellers and provided them with shelter, so that part is historically accurate. The St Bernard [dogs](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St._Bernard_\(dog\)) didn't appear until the 17th century and were not nearly as big as they are now, so that part is definitely not historically accurate.
> 
> The area where Romansh is spoken is on the other side of what is now Switzerland, but according to Netflix's marketing department Nicky speaks it so I thought I'd throw it in there.

**Author's Note:**

> I am sporadically on [tumblr](http://flirty-froggy.tumblr.com/) if you want to say hello.


End file.
